PETER'S  MOTHER 


UNIT.  OF  TAf.TF.  IIRRARY.  f,OS 


PETER'S    MOTHER 


NEW   EDITION 

WITH    INTRODUCTION 


4K 

BY 

MRS.  HENRY  DE  LA  PASTURE 


And  I  left  my  youth  behind 
For  somebody  else  to  find. 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

31   WEST  TWENTY-THIRD  STREET 


1907 


COPYRIGHT 

E.  P.  BUTTON  &  Co. 

1906 


To 

THE  BELOVED  MEMORY 
OF  MY  ONLY  BROTHER 

LT.-COLONEL  WALTER  FLOYD  BONHAM,  D.  S.  O. 


2132101 


To  MY  AMERICAN  READERS 

THE  author  of  "Peter's  Mother"  has  been  bidden 
of  the  publishers,  who  have  incurred  the  responsi- 
bility of  presenting  her  to  the  American  public, 
to  write  a  preface  to  this  edition  of  her  novel. 
She  does  so  with  the  more  diffidence  because 
it  has  been  impressed  upon  her,  by  more  than 
one  wiseacre,  that  her  novels  treat  of  a  life  too 
narrow,  an  atmosphere  too  circumscribed,  to 
be  understood  or  appreciated  by  American 
readers. 

No  one  can  please  everybody;  I  suppose  that 
no  one,  except  the  old  man  in  /Esop's  Fable, 
ever  tried  to  do  so.  But  I  venture  to  believe 
that  to  some  Americans,  a  sincere  and  truthful 
portrait  of  a  typical  Englishwoman  of  a  certain 
class  may  prove  attractive,  as  to  us  are  the  studies 
of  a  "  David  Harum,"  or  others  whose  charac- 
teristics interest  because — and  not  in  spite  of — 
their  strangeness  and  unfamiliarity.  We  do  not 
recognise  the  type;  but  as  those  who  do  have 
acknowledged  the  accuracy  of  the  representation, 
we  read,  learn,  and  enjoy  making  acquaint- 
ance with  an  individuality  and  surroundings 
foreign  to  our  own  experience. 

v 


vi  PETER'S  MOTHER 

There  are  hundreds  of  Englishwomen  living 
lives  as  isolated,  as  guarded  from  all  practical 
knowledge  of  the  outer  world,  as  entirely  cir- 
cumscribed as  the  life  of  Lady  Mary  Crewys; 
though  they  are  not  all  unhappy.  On  the  con- 
trary, many  diffuse  content  and  kindness  all 
around  them,  and  take  it  for  granted  that  their 
own  personal  wishes  are  of  no  account. 

Indeed  it  would  seem  that  some  cease  to  be 
aware  what  their  own  personal  wishes  are. 

With  anxious  eyes  fixed  on  others — the  hus- 
band, father,  sons,  who  dominate  them, — they 
live  to  please,  to  serve,  to  nurse,  and  to  console ; 
revered  certainly  as  queens  of  their  tiny  king- 
doms, but  also  helpless  as  prisoners. 

Calm,  as  fixed  stars,  they  regard  (perhaps 
sometimes  a  little  wistfully)  the  orbits  of  brighter 
planets,  and  the  flashing  of  occasional  meteors, 
within  their  ken;  knowing  that  their  own 
place  is  unchangeable — immutable. 

That  the  views  of  such  women  are  often  narrow, 
their  prejudices  many,  their  conventions  tiresome, 
who  shall  deny?  That  their  souls  are  pure  and 
tender,  their  hearts  open  to  kindness  as  are  their 
hands  to  charity,  nobody  who  knows  the  type 
will  dispute.  They  lack  many  advantages  which 
their  more  independent  sisters  (no  less  gifted 
with  noble  and  womanly  qualities)  enjoy,  but 
they  possess  a  peculiar  gentleness,  which  is  all 
their  own,  whether  it  be  adored  or  despised. 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

When  one  of  their  number  happens  to  be  cleverer, 
larger  minded,  more  restless,  and  impatient,  it 
may  be,  by  nature  than  her  sisters,  tragedy  may 
ensue.  But  not  often.  Habit  and  public  opin- 
ion are  strong  res  trainers,  stronger  sometimes 
than  even  the  most  carefully  inculcated  ab- 
stract principles. 

To  turn  to  another  phase  of  the  story — there 
was  a  time  during  the  Boer  War  when  there  was 
literally  scarcely  a  woman  in  England  who  was 
not  mourning  the  death  of  some  man — be  he  son, 
brother,  or  husband,  lover  or  friend, — and  that 
time  seems  still  very,  very  recent  to  some  of  us. 

The  rights  and  wrongs  of  a  war  have  nothing 
to  do  with  the  sympathy  all  civilised  men  and 
women  extend  to  the  soldiers  on  both  sides  who 
take  part  in  it. 

"  Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  or  die," 

and  whether  they  "do  or  die,"  the  mingled  sus- 
pense, pride, and  anguish  suffered  by  their  women- 
kind  rouses  the  pity  of  the  world;  but  most 
of  all,  for  the  secret  of  sympathy  is  understand- 
ing, the  pity  of  those  who  have  suffered  likewise. 
So  that  such  escapades  as  Peter's  in  the  story, 
being  not  very  uncommon  at  that  dark  period 
(and  having  its  foundation  in  fact),  may  have 
touched  hearts  over  here,  which  will  be  unmoved 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  I  cannot  tell, 


viii  PETER'S  MOTHER 

I  have  known  very  few  Americans,  and  though 
I  have  counted  those  few  among  my  friends, 
they  have  been  rarely  met. 

My  only  knowledge  of  America  has  been  gleaned 
from  my  observation  of  these,  and  from  reading. 
As  it  happens,  the  favourite  books  of  my  child- 
hood were,  with  few  exceptions,  American. 

Partly  from  association  and  partly  because 
I  count  it  the  most  truly  delightful  story  of  its 
kind  that  ever  was  written,  "  Little  Women"  has 
always  retained  its  early  place  in  my  affections. 
"Meg,"  "Jo,"  "Beth,"  and  "Amy"  are  my 
oldest  and  dearest  friends;  and  when  I  think 
of  them,  it  is  hard  to  believe  that  America  could 
be  a  land  of  strangers  to  me  after  all.  I  confess 
to  a  weakness  for  the  "  Wide,  Wide  World  "  and 
a  secret  passion  for  "Queechy."  I  loved  "Mr. 
Rutherford's  Children,"  and  was  always  inter- 
ested to  hear  "What  Katy  Did,"  Whilst  the 
very  thought  of  "Melbourne  House"  thrills  me 
with  recollections  of  the  joy  I  experienced  therein. 

But  this  is  all  by  the  way ;  and  for  the  egotism 
which  is,  I  fear  me,  displayed  in  this  foreword, 
I  can  but  plead,  not  only  the  difficulty  of  writing 
a  preface  at  all,  when  one  has  no  personal  in- 
clination that  way,  but  the  nervousness  which 
must  beset  a  writer  who  is  directly  addressing 
not  a  tried  and  friendly  public,  but  an  un- 
known, and,  it  may  be,  less  easily  pleased  and 
more  critical  audience.  It  appears  to  me  that 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

it  would  be  a  simpler  thing  to  write  another 
book;  and  I  would  rather  do  so.  I  can  only 
hope  that  some  of  the  readers  of  "  Peter's 
Mother,"  if  she  is  so  happy  as  to  find  favour  in 
American  eyes,  would  rather  I  did  so  too;  in 
which  case  I  shall  very  joyfully  try  to  gratify 
their  wishes,  and  my  own. 

BETTY  DE  LA  PASTURE. 


PETER'S  MOTHER 


CHAPTER  I 

ABOVE  Youlestone  village,  overlooking  the  valley 
and  the  river,  and  the  square-towered  church, 
stood  Barracombe  House,  backed  by  Barracombe 
Woods,  and  owned  by  Sir  Timothy  Crewys,  of 
Barracombe. 

From  the  terrace  before  his  windows  Sir 
Timothy  could  take  a  bird's-eye  view  of  his  own 
property,  up  the  river  and  down  the  river;  while 
he  also  had  the  felicity  of  beholding  the  estate  of 
his  most  important  neighbour,  Colonel  Hewel,  of 
Hewelscourt,  mapped  out  before  his  eyes,  as 
plainly  visible  in  detail  as  land  on  the  opposite 
side  of  a  narrow  valley  must  always  be. 

He  cast  no  envious  glances  at  his  neighbour's 
property.  The  Youle  was  a  boundary  which  none 
could  dispute,  and  which  could  only  be  con- 
veniently crossed  by  the  ferry,  for  the  nearest 
bridge  was  seven  miles  distant,  at  Brawnton,  the 
old  post-town. 

I 


2  PETER'S  MOTHER 

From  Brawnton  the  coach  still  ran  once  a 
week  for  the  benefit  of  the  outlying  villages,  and 
the  single  line  of  rail  which  threaded  the  valley 
of  the  Youle  in  the  year  1900  was  still  a  novelty 
to  the  inhabitants  of  this  unfrequented  part  of 
Devon. 

Sir  Timothy  sometimes  expressed  a  majestic 
pity  for  Colonel  Hewel,  because  the  railway  ran 
through  some  of  his  neighbour's  best  fields;  and 
also  because  Hewelscourt  was  on  the  wrong  side 
of  the  river — faced  due  north — and  was  almost 
buried  in  timber.  But  Colonel  Hewel  was  per- 
fectly satisfied  with  his  own  situation,  though 
sorry  for  Sir  Timothy,  who  lived  within  full  view 
of  the  railway,  but  was  obliged  to  drive  many 
miles  round  by  Brawnton  Bridge  in  order  to  .reach 
the  station. 

The  two  gentlemen  seldom  met.  They  lived 
in  different  parishes,  and  administered  justice  in 
different  directions.  Sir  Timothy's  dignity  did 
not  permit  him  to  make  use  of  the  ferry,  and  he 
rarely  drove  further  than  Brawnton,  or  rode 
much  beyond  the  boundaries  of  his  own  estate. 
He  cared  only  for  farming,  whilst  Colonel  Hewel 
was  devoted  to  sport. 

The  Crewys  family  had  been  Squires  of  Barra- 
combe,  cultivating  their  own  lands  and  living 
upon  them  contentedly,  for  centuries  before  the 
Hewels  had  ever  been  heard  of  in  Devon,  as  all  the 
village  knew  very  well;  wherefore  they  regarded 


PETER'S  MOTHER  3 

the  Hewels  with  a  mixture  of  good-natured  con- 
tempt and  kindly  tolerance.  The  contempt  was 
because  Hewelscourt  had  been  built  within  the 
memory  of  living  man,  and  only  two  generations 
of  Hewels  born  therein;  the  tolerance  because 
the  present  owner,  though  not  a  wealthy  man, 
was  as  liberal  in  his  dealings  as  their  squire  was 
the  reverse. 

In  the  reign  of  Charles  I.,  one  Peter  Crewys, 
an  adventurous  younger  son  of  this  obscure  but 
ancient  Devonshire  family,  had  gained  local  no- 
toriety by  raising  a  troop  of  enthusiastic  yeomen 
for  his  Majesty's  service;  subsequently  his  own 
reckless  personal  gallantry  won  wider  recognition 
in  many  an  affray  with  the  parliamentary  troops ; 
and  on  the  death  of  his  royal  master,  Peter  Crewys 
was  forced  to  fly  the  country.  He  joined  King 
Charles  II.  in  his  exile,  whilst  his  prudent  elder 
brother  severed  all  connection  with  him,  de- 
nounced him  as  a  swashbuckler,  and  made  his 
own  peace  with  the  Commonwealth. 

The  Restoration,  however,  caused  Farmer 
Timothy  to  welcome  his  relative  home  in  the 
warmest  manner,  and  the  brothers  were  not  only 
reconciled  in  their  old  age,  but  the  elder  made 
haste  to  transfer  the  ownership  of  Barracombe 
to  the  younger,  in  terror  lest  his  own  disloyalty 
should  be  rewarded  by  confiscation  of  the  family 
acres. 


4  PETER'S  MOTHER 

A  careless  but  not  ungrateful  monarch,  re- 
joicing doubtless  to  see  his  faithful  soldier  and 
servant  so  well  provided  for,  bestowed  on  him 
a  baronetcy,  a  portrait  by  Vandyck  of  the  late 
king,  his  father,  and  the  promise  of  a  handsome 
sum  of  money,  for  the  payment  of  which  the  new 
baronet  forebore  to  press  his  royal  patron.  His 
services  thus  recognized  and  rewarded,  old  Sir 
Peter  Crewys  settled  down  amicably  with  his 
brother  at  Barracombe. 

Presumably  there  had  always  been  an  excel- 
lent understanding  between  them.  In  any  case 
no  question  of  divided  interests  ever  arose. 

Sir  Peter  enlarged  the  old  Elizabethan  home- 
stead to  suit  his  new  dignity;  built  a  picture- 
gallery,  which  he  stocked  handsomely  with 
family  portraits ;  designed  terrace  gardens  on  the 
hillside  after  a  fashion  he  had  learnt  in  Italy,  and 
adopted  his  eldest  nephew  as  his  heir. 

Old  Timothy  meanwhile  continued  to  culti- 
vate the  land  undisturbed,  disdaining  new- 
fangled ideas  of  gentility,  and  adhering  in  all 
ways  to  the  customs  of  his  father.  Presently, 
soldier  and  farmer  also  passed  away,  and  were 
laid  to  rest  side  by  side  on  the  banks  of  the  Youle, 
in  the  shadow  of  the  square- towered  church. 

Before  the  house  rolled  rich  meadows,  open 
spaces  of  cornland,  and  low-lying  orchards.  The 
building  itself  stood  out  boldly  on  a  shelf  of  the 


PETER'S  MOTHER  5 

hill;  successive  generations  of  the  Crewys  family 
had  improved  or  enlarged  it  with  more  attention 
to  convenience  than  to  architecture.  The  older 
portion  was  overshadowed  by  an  imposing  south 
front  of  white  stone,  shaded  in  summer  by  a 
prolific  vine,  which  gave  it  a  foreign  appearance, 
further  enhanced  by  rows  of  green  shutters.  It 
was  screened  from  the  north  by  the  hill,  and 
from  the  east  by  a  dense  wood.  Myrtles,  hy- 
drangeas, magnolias,  and  orange-trees  flourished 
out-of-doors  upon  the  sheltered  terraces  cut  in  the 
red  sandstone. 

The  woods  of  Barracombe  stretched  upwards 
to  the  skyline  of  the  ridge  behind  the  house,  and 
were  intersected  by  winding  paths,  bordered  by 
hardy  fuchsias  and  delicate  ferns.  A  rushing 
stream  dropped  from  height  to  height  on  its 
rocky  course,  and  ended  picturesquely  and  use- 
fully in  a  waterfall  close  to  the  village,  where  it 
turned  an  old  mill-wheel  before  disappearing  into 
the  Youle. 

If  the  Squire  of  Barracombe  overlooked  from 
his  terrace  garden  the  inhabitants  of  the  village 
and  the  tell-tale  doorway  of  the  much-frequented 
inn  on  the  high-road  below — his  tenants  in  the 
valley  and  on  the  hillside  were  privileged  in  turn 
to  observe  the  goings-in  and  comings-out  of  their 
beloved  landlord  almost  as  intimately;  nor  did 
they  often  tire  of  discussing  his  movements,  his 
doings,  and  even  his  intentions. 


6  ,     PETER'S  MOTHER 

His  monotonous  life  provided  small  cause  for 
gossip  or  speculation;  but  when  the  opportunity 
arose,  it  was  eagerly  seized. 

In  the  failing  light  of  a  February  afternoon  a 
group  of  labourers  assembled  before  the  hospit- 
ably open  door  of  the  Crewys  Arms. 

"  Him  baint  been  London  ways  vor  uppard  of 
vivdeen  year,  tu  my  zurtain  knowledge,"  said  the 
old  road-mender,  jerking  his  empty  pewter  up- 
wards in  the  direction  of  the  terrace,  where  Sir 
Timothy's  solid  dark  form  could  be  discerned 
pacing  up  and  down  before  his  white  house. 

'  'Tis  vur  a  ligacy.  You  may  depend  on't. 
'Twas  vur  a  ligacy  last  time,"  said  a  brawny 
ploughman. 

"Volk  doan't  git  ligacies  every  day,"  said  the 
road-mender,  contemptuously.  "  I  zays  'tis  Mas- 
ter Peter.  Him  du  be  just  the  age  when  byes  du 
git  drubblezum,  gentle  are  zimple.  I  were 
drubblezum  myself  as  a  bye." 

'  'Twas  tu  fetch  down  this  'ere  London  jintle- 
man  as  corned  on  here  wi'  him  to-day,  I  tell  'ee. 
His  cousin,  are  zuch  like.  Zame  name,  anyways, 
var  James  Coachman  zaid  zo." 

"Well,  I  telled  'ee  zo,"  said  the  road-mender. 
"  He's  brart  down  the  nextest  heir,  var  tu  keep 
a  hold  over  Master  Peter,  and  I  doan't  blame 
'un." 

"James   Coachman   telled   me   vive   minutes 


PETER'S  MOTHER  7 

zince  as  zummat  were  up.  'Ee  zad  such  arders 
var  tu-morrer  morning,  'ee  says,  as  niver  'ee  had 
befar,"  said  the  landlord. 

"Thart  James  Coachman  weren't  niver  lit  tu 
come  here,"  said  the  road-mender,  slyly.  His 
toothless  mouth  extended  into  the  perpetual 
smile  which  had  earned  him  the  nickname  of 
"Happy  Jack,"  over  sixty  years  since,  when  he 
had  been  the  prettiest  lad  in  the  parish. 

"  He  only  snicked  down  vor  a  drop  o'  brandy, 
vur  he  were  clean  rampin'  mazed  wi'  tuth-ache. 
He  waited  till  pretty  nigh  dusk  var  the  ole  ladies 
tu  be  zafe.  'Ee  says  they  du  take  it  by  turns  zo 
long  as  daylight  du  last,  tu  spy  out  wi'  their 
microscopes,  are  zum  zuch,  as  none  of  Sir  Timo- 
thy's volk  git  tarking  down  this  ways.  A  drop  o' 
my  zider  might  git  tu  their  'yeds,"  said  the  land- 
lord, sarcastically,  "though  they  drinks  Sir 
Timothy's  by  the  bucket-vull  up  tu  Barracombe." 

"  'Tis  stronger  than  yars  du  be,"  said  Happy 
Jack.  "There  baint  no  waiter  put  tu't,  Joe 
Gudewyn.  The  warter-varl  be  tu  handy  vur  yure 
brewin'." 

"  Zum  of  my  customers  has  weak  'yeds,  'tis  arl 
the  better  for  they,"  said  Goodwyn,  calmly. 

"Then  charge  'em  accardin',  Mr.  Landlord, 
charge  'em  accardin',  zays  I.  Warter  doan't 
cost  'ee  nart,  du  'un?"  said  Happy  Jack,  tri- 
umphantly. 

"  'Ere  be  the  doctor  goin'  on  in's  trap,  while  yu 


8  PETER'S  MOTHER 

du  be  tarking  zo,"  said  the  ploughman.  "Lard, 
he  du  be  a  vast  goer,  be  Joe  Blundell." 

"  I  drove  zo  vast  as  that,  and  vaster,  when  I 
kip  a  harse,"  said  the  road-mender,  jealously. 
"  'Ee  be  a  young  man,  not  turned  vifty.  I  mind 
his  vather  and  mother  down  tu  Cullacott  befar 
they  was  wed.  Why  doan't  he  go  tu  the  war, 
that's  what  I  zay?" 

"Sir  Timothy  doan't  hold  wi'  the  war,"  said 
the  landlord. 

"Mar  shame  vor  'un,"  said  Happy  Jack. 
"But  me  and  Zur  Timothy,  us  made  up  our 
minds  tu  differ  long  ago.  I'm  arl  vor  vighting 
vurriners — Turks,  Rooshans,  Vrinchmen;  'tis  arl 
one  tu  I." 

"Why  doan't  'ee  volunteer  thyself,  Vather 
Jack?  Thee  baint  turned  nointy  yit,  be  'ee?" 
said  a  labourer,  winking  heavily,  to  convey  to  the 
audience  that  the  suggestion  was  a  humorous 
one. 

"  Ah,  zo  I  wude,  and  shute  Boers  wi'  the  best 
on  'un.  But  the  Governmint  baint  got  the  zince 
tu  ax  me,"  said  Happy  Jack,  chuckling.  "The 
young  volk  baint  nigh  zo  knowing  as  I  du  be. 
Old  Kruger  wuden't  ha'  tuke  in  I,  try  as  'un  wude. 
I  be  zo  witty  as  iver  I  can  be." 

Dr.  Blundell  saluted  the  group  before  the  inn 
as  he  turned  his  horse  to  climb  the  steep  road  to 
Barracombe. 

No  breath  of  wind  stirred,  and  the  smoke  from 


PETER'S  MOTHER  9 

the  cottage  chimneys  was  lying  low  in  the  valley, 
hovering  over  the  river  in  the  still  air. 

A  few  primroses  peeped  out  of  sheltered  cor- 
ners under  the  hedge,  and  held  out  a  timid  promise 
of  spring.  The  doctor  followed  the  red  road 
which  wound  between  Sir  Timothy's  carefully 
enclosed  plantations  of  young  larch,  passed  the 
lodge  gates,  which  were  badly  in  need  of  repair, 
and  entered  the  drive. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  justice-room  was  a  small  apartment  in  the 
older  portion  of  Barracombe  House;  the  low 
windows  were  heavily  latticed,  and  faced  west. 

Sir  Timothy  sat  before  his  writing-table,  which 
was  heaped  with  papers,  directories,  and  maps; 
but  he  could  no  longer  see  to  read  or  write.  He 
made  a  stiff  pretence  of  rising  to  greet  the  doctor 
as  he  entered,  and  then  resumed  his  elbow- 
chair. 

The  rapidly  failing  daylight  showed  a  large 
elderly,  rather  pompous  gentleman,  with  a  bald 
head,  grizzled  whiskers,  and  heavy  plebeian 
features. 

His  face  was  smooth  and  unwrinkled,  as  the 
faces  of  prosperous  and  self-satisfied  persons 
sometimes  are,  even  after  sixty,  which  was  the 
age  Sir  Timothy  had  attained. 

Dr.  Blundell,  who  sat  opposite  his  patient,  was 
neither  prosperous  nor  self-satisfied. 

His  dark  clean-shaven  face  was  deeply  lined; 
care  or  over-work  had  furrowed  his  brow ;  and  the 
rather  unkempt  locks  of  black  hair  which  fell  over 
it  were  streaked  with  white.  From  the  deep-set 


PETER'S  MOTHER  11 

brown  eyes  looked  sadness  and  fatigue,  as  well  as 
a  great  kindness  for  his  fellow-men. 

"  I  came  the  moment  I  received  your  letter," 
he  said.  "I  had  no  idea  you  were  back  from 
London  already." 

"Dr.  Blundell,"  said  Sir  Timothy,  pompously, 
"when  I  took  the  very  unusual  step  of  leaving 
home  the  day  before  yesterday,  I  had  resolved 
to  follow  the  advice  you  gave  me.  I  went  to  fulfil 
an  appointment  I  had  made  with  a  specialist." 

"With  Sir  James  Power?" 

"  No,  with  a  man  named  Herslett.  You  may 
have  heard  of  him." 

"  Heard  of  him ! "  ejaculated  Blundell.  "  Why, 
he's  world-famous!  A  new  man.  Very  clever,  of 
course.  If  anything,  a  greater  authority.  Only 
I  fancied  you  would  perhaps  prefer  an  older, 
graver  man." 

"No  doubt  I  committed  a  breach  of  medical 
etiquette,"  said  Sir  Timothy,  in  self-satisfied 
tones.  "But  I  fancied  you  might  have  written 
your  version  of  the  case  to  Power.  Ah,  you  did? 
Exactly.  But  I  was  determined  to  have  an 
absolutely  unbiassed  opinion." 

"Well,"  said  Blundell,  gently. 

"Well— I  got  it,  that's  all,"  said  Sir  Timothy. 
The  triumph  seemed  to  die  out  of  his  voice. 

"  Was  it — unsatisfactory? " 

"  Not  from  your  point  of  view,"  said  the  squire, 
with  a  heavy  jocularity  which  did  not  move  the 


12  PETER'S  MOTHER 

doctor  to  mirth.  "  I'm  bound  to  say  he  con- 
firmed your  opinion  exactly.  But  he  took  a 
far  more  serious  view  of  my  case  than  you 
do." 

"Did  he?"  said  Blundell,  turning  away  his 
head. 

"The  operation  you  suggested  as  a  possible 
necessity  must  be  immediate.  He  spoke  of  it 
quite  frankly  as  the  only  possible  chance  of  saving 
my  life,  which  is  further  endangered  by  every  hour 
of  delay." 

"Fortunately,"  said  Blundell,  cheerfully,  "you 
have  a  fine  constitution,  and  you  have  lived  a 
healthy  abstemious  life.  That  is  all  in  your 
favour." 

"I  am  over  sixty  years  of  age,"  said  Sir 
Timothy,  coldly,  "and  the  ordeal  before  me  is  a 
very  severe  one,  as  you  must  be  well  aware.  I 
must  take  the  risk  of  course,  but  the  less  said 
about  the  matter  the  better." 

Dr.  Blundell  had  always  regarded  Sir  Timothy 
Crewys  as  a  commonplace  contradictory  gentle- 
man, beset  by  prejudices  which  belonged  properly 
to  an  earlier  generation,  and  of  singularly  narrow 
sympathies  and  interests.  He  believed  him  to  be 
an  upright  man  according  to  his  lights,  which 
were  not  perhaps  very  brilliant  lights  after  all; 
but  he  knew  him  to  be  one  whom  few  people  found 
it  possible  to  like,  partly  on  account  of  his  arrog- 
ance, which  was  excessive ;  and  partly  on  account 


PETER'S  MOTHER  13 

of  his  want  of  consideration  for  the  feelings  of 
others,  which  arose  from  lack  of  perception. 

People  are  disliked  more  often  for  a  bad  man- 
ner than  for  a  bad  heart.  The  one  is  their  private 
possession — the  other  they  obtrude  on  their 
acquaintance. 

Sir  Timothy's  heart  was  not  bad,  and  he 
cared  less  for  being  liked  than  for  being  respected. 
He  was  the  offspring  of  a  mesalliance;  and  greatly 
over-estimating  the  importance  in  which  his 
family  was  held,  he  imagined  he  would  be  looked 
down  upon  for  this  mischance,  unless  he  kept 
people  at  a  distance  and  in  awe  of  him.  The 
idea  was  a  foolish  one,  no  doubt,  but  then  Sir 
Timothy  was  not  a  wise  man;  on  the  contrary, 
his  lifelong  determination  to  keep  himself  loftily 
apart  from  his  fellow-men  had  resulted  in  an  al- 
most extraordinary  ignorance  of  the  world  he 
lived  in — a  world  which  Sir  Timothy  regarded  as 
a  wild  and  misty  place,  peopled  largely  and  un- 
necessarily with  savages  and  foreigners,  and 
chiefly  remarkable  for  containing  England;  as 
England  justified  its  existence  by  holding  Devon- 
shire, and  more  especially  Barracombe. 

Sir  Timothy  had  never  been  sent  to  school,  and 
owed  such  education  as  he  possessed  almost 
entirely  to  his  half-sisters.  These  ladies  were 
considerably  his  seniors,  and  had  in  turn  been 
brought  up  at  Barracombe  by  their  grandmother ; 
whose  maxims  they  still  quoted,  and  whose  ideas 


14  PETER'S  MOTHER 

they  had  scarcely  outgrown.  Under  the  cir- 
cumstances, the  narrowness  of  his  outlook  was 
perhaps  hardly  to  be  wondered  at. 

But  the  dull  immovability  and  sense  of  im- 
portance which  characterized  him  now  seemed 
to  the  doctor  to  be  almost  tragically  charged  with 
the  typical  matter-of-fact  courage  of  the  English- 
man ;  who  displays  neither  fear  nor  emotion ;  and 
who  would  regard  with  horror  the  suspicion  that 
such  repression  might  be  heroic. 

"  When  is  it  to  be?"  said  Blundell. 

"To-morrow." 

"To-morrow!" 

"And  here,"  said  Sir  Timothy;  "Dr.  Herslett 
objected,  but  I  insisted.  I  won't  be  ill  in  a 
strange  house.  I  shall  recover  far  more  rapidly— 
if  I  am  to  recover — among  my  people,  in  my 
native  air.  London  stifles  me.  I  dislike  crowds 
and  noise.  I  hate  novelty.  If  I  am  to  die,  I  will 
die  at  home." 

"  Herslett  himself  performs  the  operation,  of 
course?" 

"Yes.  He  is  to  arrive  at  Brawnton  to-night, 
and  sleep  there.  I  shall  send  the  carriage  over  for 
him  and  his  assistants  early  to-morrow  morning. 
You,  of  course,  will  meet  him  here,  and  the  opera- 
tion is  to  take  place  at  eleven  o'clock." 

In  his  alarm  lest  the  doctor  might  be  moved 
to  express  sympathy,  Sir  Timothy  spoke  with  un- 
usual severity. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  15 

Dr.  Blundell  understood,  and  was  silent. 

"  I  sent  for  you,  of  course,  to  let  you  know  all 
this,"  said  Sir  Timothy,  "but  I  wished,  also,  to 
introduce  you  to  my  cousin,  John  Crewys,  who 
came  down  with  me." 

"TheQ.C.?" 

"  Exactly.  I  have  made  him  my  executor  and 
trustee,  and  guardian  of  my  son." 

"Jointly  with  Lady  Mary,  I  presume?"  said 
the  doctor,  unguardedly. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Sir  Timothy,  stiffly. 
"Lady  Mary  has  never  been  troubled  with  busi- 
ness matters.  That  is  why  I  urged  John  to  come 
down  with  me.  In  case — anything — happens  to- 
morrow, his  support  will  be  invaluable  to  her.  I 
have  a  high  opinion  of  him.  He  has  succeeded  in 
life  through  his  own  energy,  and  he  is  the  only 
member  of  my  family  who  has  never  applied  to 
me  for  assistance.  I  inquired  the  reason  on  the 
journey  down,  for  I  know  that  at  one  time  he  was 
in  very  poor  circumstances;  and  he  replied  that 
he  would  rather  have  starved  than  have  asked 
me  for  sixpence.  I  call  that  a  very  proper  spirit." 

The  doctor  made  no  comment  on  the  anecdote. 
"May  I  ask  how  Lady  Mary  is  bearing  this  sus- 
pense?" he  asked. 

"Lady  Mary  knows  nothing  of  the  matter," 
said  the  squire,  rather  peevishly. 

"You  have  not  prepared  her?" 

"No;   and  I  particularly  desire  she  and  my 


16  PETER'S  MOTHER 

sisters  should  hear  nothing  of  it.  If  this  is  to 
be  my  last  evening  on  earth,  I  should  not  wish  it 
to  be  clouded  by  tears  and  lamentations,  which 
might  make  it  difficult  for  me  to  maintain  my 
own  self-command.  Herslett  said  I  was  not  to  be 
agitated.  I  shall  bid  them  all  good  night  just  as 
usual.  In  the  morning  I  beg  you  will  be  good 
enough  to  make  the  necessary  explanations. 
Lady  Mary  need  hear  nothing  of  it  till  it  is  over, 
for  you  know  she  never  leaves  her  room  before 
twelve — a  habit  I  have  often  deplored,  but  which 
is  highly  convenient  on  this  occasion." 

Dr.  Blundell  reflected  for  a  moment.  "  May  I 
venture  to  remonstrate  with  you,  Sir  Timothy?" 
he  said.  "  I  fear  Lady  Mary  may  be  deeply 
shocked  and  hurt  at  being  thus  excluded  from 
your  confidence  in  so  serious  a  case.  Should  any- 
thing go  wrong,"  he  added  bluntly,  "it  would  be 
difficult  to  account  to  her  even  for  my  own  reti- 
cence." 

Sir  Timothy  rose  majestic  from  his  chair.  ' '  You 
will  say  that  7  forbade  you  to  make  the  com- 
munication," he  said,  with  rather  a  displeased  air. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Dr.  Blundell, 
"but- 

"  I  am  not  offended,"  interrupted  Sir  Timothy, 
mistaking  remonstrance  for  apology.  He  was 
quite  honestly  incapable  of  supposing  that  his 
physician  would  presume  to  argue  with  him. 

"  You  do  not,  very  naturally,  understand  Lady 


PETER'S  MOTHER  17 

Mary's  disposition  as  well  as  I  do,"  he  said,  almost 
graciously.  "  She  has  been  sheltered  from  anxiety, 
from  trouble  of  every  kind,  since  her  childhood. 
To  me,  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  her 
senior,  she  seems,  indeed,  still  almost  a  child." 

Dr.  Blundell  coloured.  "  Yet  she  is  the  mother 
of  a  grown-up  son,"  he  said. 

"Peter  grown-up!     Nonsense!     A  schoolboy." 

"Eighteen,"  said  the  doctor,  shortly.  "You 
don't  wish  him  sent  for?" 

"  Most  certainly  not.  The  Christmas  holidays 
are  only  just  over.  Rest  assured,  Dr.  Blundell," 
said  Sir  Timothy,  with  grim  emphasis,  "that  I 
shall  give  Peter  no  excuse  for  leaving  his  work,  if 
I  can  help  it." 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  The  squire 
lowered  his  voice  and  spoke  hurriedly. 

"If  it  is  the  canon,  tell  him,  in  confidence, 
what  I  have  told  you,  and  say  that  I  should  wish 
him  to  be  present  to-morrow,  in  his  official  capa- 
city, in  case  of " 

It  was  the  canon,  whose  rosy  good-humoured 
countenance  appeared  in  the  doorway  whilst  Sir 
Timothy  was  yet  speaking. 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  interrupting,"  he  said,  "but 
the  ladies  desired  me — that  is,  Lady  Belstone  and 
Miss  Crewys  desired  me — to  let  you  know  that  tea 
was  ready." 

The  canon  had  an  innocent  surprised  face  like 
a  baby ;  he  was  constitutionally  timid  and  amiable, 


18  PETER'S  MOTHER 

and  his  dislike  of  argument,  or  of  a  loud  voice, 
almost  amounted  to  fear. 

Sir  Timothy  mistook  his  nervousness  for 
proper  respect,  and  maintained  a  distant  but  con- 
descending graciousness  towards  him. 

"  I  hear  you  came  back  by  the  afternoon  train, 
Sir  Timothy.  A  London  outing  is  a  rare  thing 
for  you.  I  hope  you  enjoyed  yourself,"  said  the 
canon,  with  a  meaningless  laugh. 

"  I  transacted  my  business  successfully,  thank 
you,"  said  Sir  Timothy,  gravely. 

"  Brought  back  any  fresh  news  of  the  war?" 

"None  at  all." 

"  I  hear  the  call  for  more  men  has  been  re- 
sponded to  all  over  the  country.  It's  a  fine 
thing,  so  many  young  fellows  ready  and  willing  to 
lay  down  their  lives  for  their  country." 

"Very  few  young  men,  I  believe,"  said  Sir 
Timothy,  frigidly,  "can  resist  any  opportunity  to 
be  concerned  in  brawling  and  bloodshed,  especially 
when  it  is  legalized  under  the  name  of  war.  My 
respect  is  reserved  for  the  steady  workers  at 
home." 

"And  how  much  peace  would  the  steady 
workers  at  home  enjoy  without  the  brawlers 
abroad  to  defend  them,  I  wonder!"  cried  the 
canon,  flushing  all  over  his  rosy  face,  and  then 
suddenly  faltering  as  he  met  the  cold  surprise  of 
the  squire's  grey  eyes. 

"I  have  some  letters  to  finish  before  post 


PETER'S  MOTHER  19 

time,"  said  Sir  Timothy,  after  an  impressive  short 
pause  of  displeasure.  "  I  will  join  you  presently, 
Dr.  Blundell,  at  the  tea-table,  if  you  will  return 
to  the  ladies  with  Canon  Birch." 

Sir  Timothy  rang  for  lights,  and  his  visitors 
closed  the  door  of  the  study  behind  them.  Dr. 
Blundell's  backward  glance  showed  him  the  tall 
and  portly  form  silhouetted  against  the  window; 
the  last  gleam  of  daylight  illuminating  the  iron- 
grey  hair;  the  face  turned  towards  the  hilltop, 
where  the  spires  of  the  skeleton  larches  were 
sharply  outlined  against  a  clear  western  sky. 

"What  made  you  harp  upon  the  war,  man, 
knowing  what  his  opinions  are?"  the  doctor  asked 
vexedly,  as  he  stumbled  along  the  uneven  stone 
passage  towards  the  hall. 

"  I  did  not  exactly  intend  to  do  so;  but  I  de- 
clare, the  moment  I  see  Sir  Timothy,  every  subject 
I  wish  to  avoid  seems  to  fly  to  the  tip  of  my 
tongue,"  said  the  poor  canon,  apologetically; 
"though  I  had  a  reason  for  alluding  to  the  war 
to-night — a  good  reason,  as  I  think  you  will  ac- 
knowledge presently.  I  want  your  advice,  doc- 
tor." 

"Not  for  yourself,  I  hope,"  said  the  doctor, 
absently. 

"Come  into  the  gun-room  for  one  moment," 
said  Birch.  "It  is  very  important.  Do  you 
know  I've  a  letter  from  Peter?" 


20  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"From  Peter!  Why  should  you  have  a  letter 
from  Peter? "  said  the  doctor,  and  his  uninterested 
tone  became  alert. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  not.  I  was 
always  fond  of  Peter,"  said  the  canon,  humbly. 
"Will  you  cast  your  eye  over  it?  You  see,  it's 
written  from  Eton,  and  posted  two  days  later  in 
London." 

Dr.  Blundell  read  the  letter,  which  was  written 
in  a  schoolboy  hand,  and  not  guiltless  of  mistakes 
in  spelling. 

"  DEAR  CANON  BIRCH, 

"As  my  father  wouldn't  hear  of  my 
going  out  to  South  Africa,  I've  taken  the  law  into 
my  own  hands.  I  wrote  to  my  mother's  cousin. 
Lord  Ferries,  to  ask  him  to  include  me  in  his  yeo- 
manry corps.  Of  course  I  let  him  suppose  papa 
was  willing  and  anxious,  which  perhaps  was  a  low- 
down  game,  but  I  remembered  that  all's  fair  in 
love  and  war;  and  besides,  I  consider  papa  very 
nearly  a  pro-Boer.  We've  orders  to  sail  on  Friday, 
which  is  sharp  work;  but  I  should  be  eternally  dis- 
graced now  if  they  stopped  me.  As  my  father  never 
listens  to  reason,  far  less  to  me,  you  had  better  ex- 
plain to  him  that  if  he's  any  regard  for  the  honour 
of  our  name,  he's  no  choice  left.  I  expect  my 
mother  had  better  not  be  told  till  I'm  gone,  or  she 
will  only  fret  over  what  can't  be  helped.  I'll  write 
to  her  on  board,  once  we're  safely  started.  I  know 


PETER'S  MOTHER  21 

you're  all  right  about  the  war,  so  you  can  tell  papa 
I  was  ashamed  to  be  playing  football  while  fellows 
younger  than  me,  and  fellows  who  can't  shoot  or 
ride  as  I  can,  are  going  off  to  South  Africa  every 

day. 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

"PETER  CREWYS. 

"P.S. — Hope  you  won't  mind  this  job.  I  did 
try  to  get  papa's  leave  fair  and  square  first." 

"I  always  said  Peter  was  a  fine  fellow  at 
bottom,"  said  Canon  Birch,  anxiously  scanning 
the  doctor's  frowning  face. 

"  He's  an  infernal  self-willed,  obstinate,  heart- 
less young  cub  on  top,  then,"  said  Blundell. 

"  He's  a  chip  of  the  old  block,  no  doubt,"  said 
the  canon;  "but  still" — his  admiration  of  Peter's 
boldness  was  perceptible  in  his  voice — "he 
doesn't  share  his  father's  reprehensible  opinions 
on  the  subject  of  the  war." 

"Sons  generally  begin  life  by  differing  from 
their  fathers,  and  end  by  imitating  them,"  said 
Blundell,  sharply.  "  Birch,  we  must  stop  him." 

"  I  don't  see  how,"  said  the  canon;  and  he  in- 
dulged in  a  gentle  chuckle.  "The  young  rascal 
has  laid  his  plans  too  well.  He  sails  to-morrow. 
I  telegraphed  inquiries.  Ferries'  Horse  are  going 
by  the  Rosmore  Castle  to-morrow  morning  at 
eleven  o'clock." 


22  PETER'S  MOTHER 

Dr.  Blundell  made  an  involuntary  movement, 
which  the  canon  did  not  perceive. 

"  I  don't  relish  the  notion  of  breaking  this 
news  to  Sir  Timothy.  But  I  thought  we  could 
consult  together,  you  and  me,  how  to  do  it,"  said 
the  innocent  gentleman.  "There's  no  doubt, 
you  know,  that  it  must  be  done  at  once,  or  he 
can't  get  to  Southampton  in  time  to  see  the  boy 
off  and  forgive  him.  I  suppose  even  Sir  Timothy 
will  forgive  him  at  such  a  moment.  God  bless  the 
lad!" 

Dr.  Blundell  uttered  an  exclamation  that  did 
not  sound  like  a  blessing. 

"Look  here,  Birch,"  he  said,  "this  is  no  time 
to  mince  matters.  If  the  boy  can't  be  stopped — 
and  under  the  circumstances  he's  got  us  on  toast 
— he  can't  cry  off  active  service — as  the  boy  can't 
be  stopped,  you  must  just  keep  this  news  to  your- 
self." 

"  But  I  must  tell  Sir  Timothy!" 

"You  must  not  tell  Sir  Timothy." 

"Though  all  my  sympathies  are  with  the  boy 
— for  I'm  a  patriot  first,  and  a  parson  afterwards 
— God  forgive  me  for  saying  so,"  said  Birch,  in  a 
trembling  voice,  "yet  I  can't  take  the  respon- 
sibility of  keeping  Peter's  father  in  ignorance  of 
his  action.  I  see  exactly  what  you  mean,  of 
course.  Sir  Timothy  will  make  unpleasantness, 
and  very  likely  telegraph  to  his  commanding 
officer,  and  disgrace  the  poor  boy  before  his  com- 


PETER'S  MOTHER  23 

rades ;  and  shout  at  me,  a  thing  I  can't  bear;  and 
you  kindly  think  to  spare  me — and  Peter.  But 
I  can't  take  the  responsibility  of  keeping  it  dark, 
for  all  that,"  said  the  canon,  shaking  his  head 
regretfully. 

"7  take  the  responsibility,"  said  the  doctor, 
shortly.  "As  Sir  Timothy's  physician,  I  forbid 
you  to  tell  him." 

"  Is  Sir  Timothy  ill? "  The  canon's  light  eyes 
grew  rounder  with  alarm. 

"He  is  to  undergo  a  dangerous  operation  to- 
morrow morning." 

"God  bless  my  soul!" 

"  He  desires  this  evening — possibly  his  last  on 
earth — to  be  a  calm  and  unclouded  one,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  Respect  his  wishes,  Birch,  as  you  would 
respect  the  wishes  of  a  dying  man." 

"  Do  you  mean  he  won't  get  over  it?  "  said  the 
canon,  in  a  horrified  whisper. 

"You  always  want  the  t's  crossed  and  the  i's 
dotted,"  said  Blundell,  impatiently.  "Of  course 
there  is  a  chance — his  only  chance.  He's  a 

d d  plucky  old  fellow.  I  never  thought  to  like 

Sir  Timothy  half  so  well  as  I  do  at  this  moment." 

"  I  hope  I  don't  dislike  any  man,"  faltered  the 
canon.  "But " 

"Exactly,"  said  the  doctor,  dryly. 

"But  what  shall  I  do  with  Peter's  letter?" 
said  the  unhappy  recipient. 

"  Not  one  word  to  Sir  Timothy.     Agitation  or 


24  PETER'S  MOTHER 

distress  of  mind  at  such  a  moment  would  be  the 
worst  thing  in  the  world  for  him." 

"  But  I  can't  let  Peter  sail  without  a  word  to 
his  people.  And  his  mother.  Good  God,  Blundell ! 
Is  Lady  Mary  to  lose  husband  and  son  in  one  day  ? ' ' 

" Lady  Mary,"  said  the  doctor,  bitterly,  "is  to 
be  treated,  as  usual,  like  a  child,  and  told  nothing 
of  her  husband's  danger  till  it's  over.  As  for 
Peter — well,  devoted  mother  as  she  is,  she  must 
be  pretty  well  accustomed  by  this  time  to  the 
captious  indifference  of  her  spoilt  boy.  She  won't 
be  surprised,  though  she  may  be  hurt,  that  he 
should  coolly  propose  to  set  off  without  bidding 
her  good-bye." 

"Couldn't  we  tell  her  in  confidence  about 
Peter?"  said  the  canon,  struck  with  a  brilliant 
idea. 

" Certainly  not;  she  would  fly  to  him  at  once, 
and  leave  Sir  Timothy  alone  in  his  extremity." 

"Couldn't  we  tell  her  in  confidence  about  Sir 
Timothy?" 

"  I  have  allowed  Sir  Timothy  to  understand 
that  neither  you  nor  I  will  betray  his  secret." 

"I'm  no  hand  at  keeping  a  secret,"  said  the 
canon,  unhappily. 

"Nonsense,  canon,  nonsense,"  said  Dr.  Blun- 
dell, laying  a  friendly  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  No 
main  in  your  profession,  or  in  mine,  ought  to  be 
able  to  say  that.  Pull  yourself  together,  hope  for 
the  best,  and  play  your  part." 


CHAPTER  III 

JOHN  CREWYS  looked  round  the  hall  at  Barra- 
combe  House  with  curious,  interested  eyes. 

It  was  divided  from  the  outer  vestibule  on  the 
western  side  of  the  building  by  a  massive  partition 
of  dark  oak,  and  it  retained  the  solid  beams  and 
panelled  walls  of  Elizabethan  days;  but  the  oak 
had  been  barbarously  painted,  grained  and 
varnished.  Only  the  staircase  was  so  heavily 
and  richly  carved,  that  it  had  defied  the  ingenuity 
of  the  comb  engraver.  It  occupied  the  further 
end  of  the  hall,  opposite  the  entrance  door,  and 
was  lighted  dimly  by  a  small  heavily  leaded, 
stained-glass  window.  The  floor  was  likewise 
black,  polished  with  age  and  the  labour  of  genera- 
tions. A  deeply  sunken  nail-studded  door  led 
into  a  low-ceiled  library,  containing  a  finely  carved 
frieze  and  cornice,  and  an  oak  mantelpiece,  which 
John  Crewys  earnestly  desired  to  examine  more 
closely;  the  shield-of-arms  above  it  bore  the 
figures  of  1603,  but  the  hall  itself  was  of  an  earlier 
date. 

Parallel  to  it  was  the  suite  of  lofty,  modern, 
green-shuttered  reception-rooms,  which  occupied 

£5 


26  PETER'S  MOTHER 

the  south  front  of  the  house,  and  into  which  an 
opening  had  been  cut  through  the  massive  wall 
next  the  chimney. 

The  character  of  the  hall  was,  however,  com- 
pletely destroyed  by  the  decoration  which  had 
been  bestowed  upon  it,  and  by  the  furniture  and 
pictures  which  filled  it. 

John  Crewys  looked  round  with  more  indigna- 
tion than  admiration  at  the  home  of  his  ancestors. 

In  the  great  oriel  window  stood  a  round  ma- 
hogany table,  bearing  a  bouquet  of  wax  flowers 
under  a  glass  shade.  Cases  of  stuffed  birds  orna- 
mented every  available  recess;  mahogany  and 
horsehair  chairs  were  set  stiffly  round  the  walls 
at  even  distances.  A  heap  of  folded  moth-eaten 
rugs  and  wraps  disfigured  a  side- table,  and  be- 
neath it  stood  a  row  of  clogs  and  goloshes. 

Round  the  walls  hung  full-length  portraits  of 
an  early  Victorian  date.  The  artist  had  spent  a 
couple  of  months  at  Barracombe  fifty  years  since, 
and  had  painted  three  generations  of  the  Crewys 
family,  who  were  then  gathered  together  beneath 
its  hospitable  roof.  His  diligence  had  been  more 
remarkable  than  his  ability.  At  any  other  time 
John  Crewys  would  have  laughed  outright  at  this 
collection  of  works  of  art. 

But  the  air  was  charged  with  tragedy,  and  he 
could  not  laugh.  His  seriousness  commended 
him  favourably,  had  he  known  it,  to  the  two 
old  ladies,  his  cousins,  Sir  Timothy's  half-sisters, 


PETER'S  MOTHER  27 

who  were  seated  beside  the  great  log  fire,  and 
who  regarded  him  with  approving  eyes.  For 
their  stranger  cousin  had  that  extreme  gentleness 
and  courtesy  of  manner  and  regard,  which  some- 
times accompanies  unusual  strength,  whether  of 
character  or  of  person. 

It  was  a  pity,  old  Lady  Belstone  whispered  to 
her  spinster  sister,  that  John  was  not  a  Crewys, 
for  he  had  a  remarkably  fine  head,  and  had  he 
been  but  a  little  taller  and  slimmer,  would  have 
been  a  credit  to  the  family. 

Certainly  John  was  not  a  Crewys.  He  pos- 
sessed neither  grey  eyes,  nor  a  large  nose,  nor  the 
height  which  should  be  attained  by  every  man 
and  woman  bearing  that  name,  according  to  the 
family  record. 

But  though  only  of  middle  size,  and  rather 
square-shouldered,  he  was,  nevertheless,  a  dis- 
tinguished-looking man,  with  a  finely  shaped  head 
and  well-cut  features.  Clean  shaven,  as  a  great 
lawyer  ought  to  be,  with  a  firm  and  rather  satirical 
mouth,  a  broad  brow,  and  bright  hazel  eyes  set 
well  apart  and  twinkling  with  humour.  No 
doubt  John's  appearance  had  been  a  factor  in  his 
successful  career. 

The  sisters,  themselves  well  advanced  in  the 
seventies,  spoke  of  him  and  thought  of  him  as  a 
young  man;  a  boy  who  had  succeeded  in  life  in 
spite  of  small  means,  and  an  extravagant  mother, 
to  whom  he  had  been  obliged  to  sacrifice  his 


28  PETER'S  MOTHER 

patrimony.  But  though  he  carried  his  forty-five 
years  lightly,  John  Crewys  had  left  his  boyhood 
very  far  behind  him.  His  crisp  dark  hair  was 
frosted  on  the  temples;  he  stooped  a  little  after 
the  fashion  of  the  desk-worker ;  he  wore  pince-nez ; 
his  manner,  though  alert,  was  composed  and  digni- 
fied. The  restlessness,  the  nervous  energy  of 
youth,  had  been  replaced  by  the  calm  confidence 
of  middle  age — of  tested  strength,  of  ripe  ex- 
perience. 

On  his  side,  John  Crewys  felt  very  kindly 
towards  the  venerable  ladies,  who  represented  to 
him  all  the  womankind  of  his  own  race. 

Both  sisters  possessed  the  family  characteris- 
tics which  he  lacked.  They  were  tall  and  sur- 
prisingly upright,  considering  the  weight  of  years 
which  pressed  upon  their  thin  shoulders.  They 
retained  the  manners — almost  the  speech — of  the 
eighteenth  century,  to  which  the  grandmother 
who  was  responsible  for  their  upbringing  had 
belonged;  and,  with  the  exception  of  a  very 
short  experience  of  matrimony  in  Lady  Belstone's 
case,  they  had  always  resided  exclusively  at 
Barracombe. 

Lady  Belstone,  besides  her  widowed  dignity, 
had  the  advantage  of  her  sister  in  appearance, 
mainly  because  she  permitted  art,  in  some  de- 
gree, to  repair  the  ravages  of  time.  A  stiff  toupet 
of  white  curls  crowned  the  withered  brow,  below 
a  widow's  cap;  and,  when  she  smiled,  which  was 


PETER'S  MOTHER  29 

not  very  often,  a  double  row  of  pearls  was  not 
unpleasantly  displayed.  Miss  Crewys  had  never 
succumbed  to  the  temptations  of  worldly  vanity. 
She  scrupulously  parted  her  scanty  grey  locks 
above  her  polished  forehead,  and  cared  not  how 
wide  the  parting  grew.  If  she  wore  a  velvet  bow 
upon  her  scalp,  it  was,  as  she  truly  said,  for  de- 
cency, and  not  for  ornament;  and  further,  she 
allowed  her  wholesome,  ruddy  cheeks  to  fall  in, 
as  her  ever-lengthening  teeth  fell  out.  The  frequent 
explanations  which  ensued,  regarding  the  seniority 
of  the  widow,  were  a  source  of  constant  satisfac- 
tion to  Miss  Crewys,  and  vexation  to  her  sister. 

"You  might  be  a  hundred  years  old,  Geor- 
gina,"  she  would  angrily  lament. 

"  I  very  soon  shall  be  a  hundred  years  old, 
Isabella,  if  I  live  as  long  as  my  grandmother  did," 
Miss  Crewys  would  triumphantly  reply.  "  It  is 
surprising  to  me  that  a  woman  who  was  never 
good-looking  at  the  best  of  times,  should  cling  to 
her  youth  as  you  do." 

"It  is  more  surprising  to  me  that  you  should 
let  yourself  go  to  rack  and  ruin,  and  never  stretch 
out  a  hand  to  help  yourself." 

"I  am  what  God  made  me,"  said  the  pious 
Georgina,  "whereas  you  do  everything  but  paint 
your  face,  Isabella;  and  I  have  little  doubt  but 
what  you  will  come  to  that  by  the  time  you  are 
eighty." 

But  though  they  disputed  hotly  on  occasion 


30  PETER'S  MOTHER 

the  sisters  generally  preserved  a  united  front  be- 
fore the  world,  and  only  argued,  since  argue  they 
must,  in  the  most  polite  and  affectionate  terms. 

The  firelight  shed  its  cheerful  glow  over  the 
laden  tea-table,  and  was  reflected  in  the  silver 
urn,  and  the  crimson  and  gold  and  blue  of  the 
Crown  Derby  tea-set.  But  the  old  ladies,  though 
casting  longing  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  teapot, 
religiously  abstained  from  offering  to  touch  it. 

"  No,  John,"  said  Miss  Crewys,  in  a  tone  of  ex- 
emplary patience ;  "  I  have  made  it  a  rule  never  to 
take  upon  myself  any  of  the  duties  of  hospitality 
in  my  dear  brother's  house,  ever  since  he  married, 
— odd  as  it  may  seem,  when  we  remember  how  he 
used  once  to  sit  at  this  very  table  in  his  little 
bib  and  tucker,  whilst  Isabella  poured  out  his 
milk,  and  I  cut  his  bread  and  butter." 

"  We  both  make  the  rule,  John,"  said  Lady  Bel- 
stone,  mournfully,  "or,  of  course,  as  the  elder 
sister,  /  should  naturally  pour  out  the  tea  in  our 
dear  Lady  Mary's  absence." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  said  John  Crewys. 

"Forgive  me,  Isabella,  but  we  have  discussed 
this  point  before,"  said  Miss  Crewys.  "Though  I 
cannot  deny,  our  cousin  being,  as  he  is,  a  lawyer, 
his  opinion  would  carry  weight.  But  I  think  he 
will  agree  with  me" — John  smiled — "that  when 
the  elder  daughter  of  a  house  marries,  she  forfeits 
her  rights  of  seniority  in  that  house,  and  the  next 
sister  succeeds  to  her  place." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  31 

"I  should  suppose  that  might  be  the  case," 
said  John,  bowing  politely  in  the  direction  of  the 
widow. 

"  I  never  disputed  the  fact,  Georgina.  It  is, 
as  our  cousin  says,  self-evident,"  said  Lady  Bel- 
stone,  returning  the  bow.  "  But  I  have  always 
maintained,  and  always  shall,  that  when  the 
married  sister  comes  back  widowed  to  the  home 
of  her  fathers,  the  privileges  of  birth  are  restored 
to  her." 

Both  sisters  turned  shrewd,  expectant  grey 
eyes  upon  their  cousin. 

"It  is — it  is  rather  a  nice  point,"  said  John 
Crewys,  as  gravely  as  he  could. 

He  welcomed  thankfully  the  timely  inter- 
ruption of  an  opening  door  and  the  entrance  of 
Canon  Birch  and  the  doctor. 

At  the  same  moment,  from  the  archway  which 
supported  the  great  oak  staircase,  the  butler 
entered,  carrying  lights. 

"  Is  her  ladyship  not  yet  returned  from  her  walk, 
Ash?"  asked  Lady  Belstone,with  affected  surprise. 

"  Her  ladyship  came  in  some  time  ago,  my 
lady,  and  went  to  see  Sir  Timothy.  She  left  word 
she  was  gone  upstairs  to  change  her  walking 
things,  and  would  be  down  directly." 

The  sisters  greeted  the  canon  with  effusion,  and 
Dr.  Blundell  with  frigid  civility. 

John  Crewys  shook  hands  with  both  gentle- 
men. 


32  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"I  am  sorry  I  cannot  offer  you  tea,  Canon 
Birch,  until  my  sister-in-law  comes  down,"  said 
Miss  Crewys. 

"  Our  dear  Lady  Mary  is  so  very  unpunctual," 
said  Lady  Belstone. 

"I  dare  say  something  has  detained  her,"  said 
the  canon,  good-humouredly. 

"  It  often  happens  that  my  sister  and  myself 
are  kept  waiting  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  more  for 
our  tea.  We  do  not  complain,"  said  Lady  Belstone. 

John  Crewys  began  to  feel  a  little  sorry  for 
Lady  Mary. 

As  the  sisters  appeared  inclined  to  devote 
themselves  to  their  clerical  visitor  rather  exclu- 
sively, he  drew  near  the  recess  to  which  Dr.  Blun- 
dell  had  retired,  and  joined  him  in  the  oriel 
window. 

"  Have  you  never  been  here  before  ? ' J  asked  the 
doctor,  rather  abruptly. 

"Never,"  said  John  Crewys,  smiling.  "I 
understand  my  cousins  are  not  much  given  to 
entertaining  visitors.  I  have  never,  in  fact,  seen 
any  of  them  but  once  before.  That  was  at  Sir 
Timothy's  wedding,  twenty  years  ago." 

"  Barely  nineteen,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  I  believe  it  was  nineteen,  since  you  remind 
me, ' '  said  John,  slightly  astonished.  ' '  I  remember 
thinking  Sir  Timothy  a  lucky  man." 

"  I  dare  say  he  looked  much  about  the  same  as 
he  does  now,"  said  the  doctor. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  33 

"Well,"  John  said,  "perhaps  a  little  slimmer, 
you  know.  Not  much.  An  iron-grey,  middle- 
aged-looking  man.  No;  he  has  changed  very 
little." 

"  He  was  born  elderly,  and  he  will  die  elderly," 
said  the  doctor,  shortly.  "Neither  the  follies  of 
youth  nor  the  softening  of  age  will  ever  be  known 
to  Sir  Timothy."  He  paused,  noting  the  sur- 
prised expression  of  John's  face,  and  added 
apologetically,  "  I  am  a  native  of  these  parts.  I 
have  known  him  all  my  life." 

"  And  I  am — only  a  stranger,"  said  John.  He 
hesitated,  and  lowered  his  voice.  "You  know 
why  I  came?" 

"  Yes,  I  know.  I  am  very  glad  you  did  come," 
said  the  doctor.  His  tone  changed.  "Here  is 
Lady  Mary,"  he  said. 

John  Crewys  was  struck  by  the  sudden  illum- 
ination of  Dr.  Blundell's  plain,  dark  face.  The 
deeply  sunken  eyes  glowed,  and  the  sadness  and 
weariness  of  their  expression  were  dispelled. 

His  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  the  doctor's 
gaze,  and  his  own  face  immediately  reflected  the 
doctor's  interest. 

Lady  Mary  was  coming  down  the  wide  stair- 
case, in  the  light  of  a  group  of  wax  candles  held 
by  a  tall  bronze  angel. 

She  was  dressed  with  almost  rigid  simplicity, 
and  her  abundant  light  brown  hair  was  plainly 
parted.  She  was  pale  and  even  sad-looking,  but 


34  PETER'S  MOTHER 

beautiful  still;  with  a  delicate  and  regular  pro- 
file, soft  blue  eyes,  and  a  sweet,  rather  tremulous 
mouth. 

John's  heart  seemed  to  contract  within  him, 
and  then  beat  fast  with  a  sensation  that  was  not 
entirely  pity,  because  those  eyes — the  bluest,  he 
remembered,  that  he  had  ever  seen — brought 
back  to  him,  suddenly  and  vividly,  the  memory 
of  the  exquisitely  fresh  and  lovely  girl  who  had 
married  her  elderly  guardian  nineteen  years  since. 

He  recollected  that  some  members  of  the 
Crewys  family  had  agreed  that  Lady  Mary 
Setoun  had  done  well  for  herself,  "a  penniless 
lass  wi'  a  lang  pedigree;"  for  Sir  Timothy  was 
rich.  Others  had  laughed,  and  said  that  Sir 
Timothy  was  determined  that  his  heirs  should  be 
able  to  boast  some  of  the  bluest  blood  in  Scot- 
land on  their  mother's  side, — but  that  he  might 
have  waited  a  little  longer  for  his  bride. 

She  was  so  young,  barely  seventeen  years  old, 
and  so  very  lovely,  that  John  Crewys  had  felt 
indignant  with  Sir  Timothy,  whose  appearance 
and  manner  did  not  attract  him.  He  was  re- 
minded that  the  bride  owed  almost  everything 
she  possessed  in  the  world  to  her  husband,  but  he 
was  not  pacified. 

The  glance  of  the  gay  blue  eyes, — the  laugh  on 
the  curved  young  mouth, — the  glint  of  gold  on 
the  sunny  brown  hair, — had  played  havoc  with 
John's  honest  heart.  He  had  not  a  penny  in  the 


PETER'S  MOTHER  35 

world  at  that  time,  and  could  not  have  married  her 
if  he  would;  but  from  Lady  Mary's  wedding  he 
carried  away  in  his  breast  an  image — an  ideal — • 
which  had  perhaps  helped  to  keep  him  unwed 
during  these  later  years  of  his  successful  career. 

Why  did  she  look  so  sad? 

John's  kind  heart  had  melted  somewhat  to- 
wards Sir  Timothy,  when  the  poor  gentleman  had 
sought  him  in  his  chambers  on  the  previous  day, 
and  appealed  to  him  for  help  in  his  extremity. 
He  was  sorry  for  his  cousin,  in  spite  of  the  pomp- 
ousness  and  arrogance  with  which  Sir  Timothy 
unconsciously  did  his  best  to  alienate  even  those 
whom  he  most  desired  to  attract. 

He  had  come  to  Devonshire,  at  great  incon- 
venience to  himself,  in  response  to  that  appeal; 
and  in  his  hurry,  and  his  sympathy  for  his  cousin's 
trouble,  he  had  scarcely  given  a  thought  to  the 
momentary  romance  connected  with  his  first  and 
only  meeting  with  Lady  Mary.  Yet  now,  behold, 
after  nineteen  years,  the  look  on  her  sweet  face 
thrilled  his  middle-aged  bosom  as  it  had  thrilled 
his  young  manhood.  John  smiled  or  thought  he 
smiled,  as  he  came  forward  to  be  presented  once 
more  to  Sir  Timothy's  wife;  but  he  was,  never- 
theless, rather  pleased  to  find  that  he  had  not 
outgrown  the  power  of  being  thus  romantically 
attracted. 

"I  hope  I'm  not  late,"  said  the  soft  voice. 
"You  see,  no  one  expected  Sir  Timothy  to  come 


36  PETER'S  MOTHER 

home  so  soon,  and  I  was  out.  Is  that  Cousin 
John?  We  met  once  before,  at  my  wedding. 
You  have  not  changed  a  bit;  I  remember  you 
quite  well,"  said  Lady  Mary.  She  came  forward 
and  held  out  two  welcoming  hands  ,to  her 
visitor. 

John  Crewys  bowed  over  those  little  white 
hands,  and  became  suddenly  conscious  that  his 
vague,  romantic  sentiment  had  given  place  to  a 
very  real  emotion — an  almost  passionate  anxiety 
to  shield  one  so  fair  and  gentle  from  the  trouble 
which  was  threatening  her,  and  of  which,  as  he 
knew,  she  was  perfectly  unconscious. 

The  warmth  of  her  impulsive  welcome  did  not, 
of  course,  escape  the  keen  eyes  of  the  sisters-in- 
law,  which,  in  such  matters  as  these,  were  quite 
undimmed  by  age. 

"Why  didn't  somebody  pour  out  tea?"  said 
Lady  Mary. 

"We  know  your  rights,  Mary,"  said  Miss 
Crewys.  "Never  shall  it  be  said  that  dear 
Timothy's  sisters  ousted  his  wife  from  her  proper 
place,  because  she  did  not  happen  to  be  present 
to  occupy  it." 

"  Besides,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  "you  have,  no 
doubt,  some  excellent  reason,  my  love,  for  the 
delay." 

Lady  Mary's  blue  eyes,  glancing  at  John,  said 
quite  plainly  and  beseechingly  to  his  understand- 
ing, "They  are  old,  and  rather  cranky,  but  they 


PETER'S  MOTHER  37 

don't  mean  to  be  unkind.  Do  forgive  them;" 
and  John  smiled  reassuringly. 

"I'm  afraid  I  haven't  much  excuse  to  offer," 
she  said  ingenuously.  "  I  was  out  late,  and  I 
tired  myself ;  and  then  I  heard  Sir  Timothy  had 
come  back,  so  I  went  to  see  him.  And  then  I 
made  haste  to  change  my  dress,  and  it  took  a  long 
time — and  that's  all." 

The  three  gentlemen  laughed  forgivingly  at 
this  explanation,  and  the  two  ladies  exchanged 
shocked  glances. 

"  Our  cousin  John  did  his  best  to  entertain  us, 
and  we  him,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  stiffly. 

"  His  best — and  how  good  that  must  be!"  said 
Lady  Mary,  with  pretty  spirit.  "The  great 
counsel  whose  eloquence  is  listened  to  with 
breathless  attention  in  crowded  courts,  and  read 
at  every  breakfast- table  in  England." 

"  That  is  a  very  delightful  picture  of  the  life  of 
a  briefless  barrister,"  said  John  Crewys,  smiling. 

"  Mary,"  said  Miss  Crewys,  in  lowered  tones  of 
reproof,  "  I  understood  that  divorce  cases,  unhap- 
pily, occupied  the  greater  part  of  our  cousin  John's 
attention." 

"We've  heard  of  you,  nevertheless — we've 
heard  of  you,  Mr.  Crewys,"  said  the  canon, 
nervously  interposing,  "even  in  this  out-of-the- 
way  corner  of  the  west." 

"  But  there  is  one  breakfast- table,  at  least,  in 
England,  where  divorce  cases  are  not  perused,  and 


38  PETER'S  MOTHER 

that  is  my  brother  Timothy's  breakfast- table," 
said  Lady  Belstone,  very  distinctly. 

John  hastened  to  fill  up  the  awkward  pause 
which  ensued,  by  a  reference  to  the  beauty  of  the 
hall. 

"  I'm  afraid  we  don't  live  up  to  our  beautiful 
old  house,"  said  Lady  Mary,  shaking  her  head. 
"  There  are  some  lovely  things  stored  away  in 
the  gallery  upstairs,  and  some  beautiful  pictures 
hanging  there,  including  the  Vandyck,  you  know, 
which  Charles  II.  gave  to  old  Sir  Peter,  your 
cavalier  ancestor.  But  the  gallery  is  almost  a 
lumber-room,  for  the  floor  is  too  unsafe  to  walk 
upon.  And  down  here,  as  you  see,  we  are  terri- 
bly Philistine." 

"This  hall  was  furnished  by  my  grandmother 
for  her  son's  marriage,"  said  Miss  Crewys. 

"And  she  sent  all  your  great-grandmother's 
treasures  to  the  attics,"  said  Lady  Mary,  with 
rather  a  wilful  intonation.  "  I  always  long  to 
bring  them  to  light  again,  and  to  make  this  place 
livable;  but  my  husband  does  not  like  change." 

"Dear  Timothy  is  faithful  to  the  past,"  said 
Miss  Crewys,  majestically. 

"I  wish  old  Lady  Crewys  had  been  as  faith- 
ful," said  Lady  Mary,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 

"Young  people  always  like  changes,"  said 
Lady  Belstone,  more  leniently. 

"Young  people!"  said  Lady  Mary,  with  a 
rather  pathetic  smile.  "John  will  think  you  are 


PETER'S  MOTHER  39 

laughing  at  me.  Am  I  to  be  young  still  at  five- 
and- thirty?" 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  John,  "  unless  you  are  going 
to  be  so  unkind  as  to  make  a  man  only  ten  years 
your  senior  feel  elderly." 

Miss  Crewys  interposed  with  a  simple  state- 
ment. "  In  my  day,  the  age  of  a  lady  was  never 
referred  to  in  polite  conversation.  Least  of  all  by 
herself.  I  never  allude  to  mine." 

"You  are  unmarried,  Georgina,"  said  Lady 
Belstone,  unexpectedly  turning  upon  her  ally. 
"  Unmarried  ladies  are  always  sensitive  on  the  sub- 
ject of  age.  I  am  sure  I  do  not  care  who  knows 
that  my  poor  admiral  was  twenty  years  my 
senior.  And  his  age  can  be  looked  up  in  any 
book  of  reference.  It  would  have  been  useless  to 
try  and  conceal  it, — a  man  so  well  known." 

"A  woman  is  as  old  as  she  looks,"  said  the 
canon,  soothingly,  for  the  annoyance  of  Miss 
Crewys  was  visible.  "I  am  bound  to  say  that 
Miss  Crewys  looks  exactly  the  same  as  when  I  first 
knew  her." 

"Of  course,  a  spinster  escapes  the  wear  and 
tear  of  matrimony,"  said  Miss  Crewys,  glaring  at 
.her  widowed  relative. 

"  H'm,  h'm! "  said  Dr.  Blundell.  "  By-the-by, 
have  you  inspected  the  old  picture  gallery,  Mr. 
Crewys?" 

"Not  yet,  "said  John. 

Lady  Belstone   shot  a  glance  of  speechless 


40  PETER'S  MOTHER 

indignation  at  her  sister.  Sympathy  between 
them  was  immediately  restored.  Prompt  action 
was  necessary  on  the  part  of  the  family,  or  this 
presumptuous  physician  would  be  walking  round 
the  house  to  show  John  Crewys  the  portraits  of 
his  own  ancestors. 

"/  shall  be  delighted  to  show  our  cousin  the 
pictures  in  the  gallery  and  in  the  dining-room," 
said  Miss  Crewys,  "if  my  sister  Isabella  will  ac- 
company me,  and  if  Lady  Mary  has  no  objections." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  John.  He  rose  and 
walked  to  a  small  rosewood  cabinet  of  curios.  "  I 
see  there  are  some  beautiful  miniatures  here." 

"  Oh,  those  do  not  belong  to  the  family." 

"They  are  Setoun  things — some  of  the  few 
that  came  to  me,"  said  Lady  Mary,  rather  tim- 
idly. "  I  am  afraid  they  would  not  interest  you." 

"Not  interest  me!  But  indeed  I  care  only 
too  much  for  such  things,"  said  John.  "  Here  is  a 
Cosway,  and,  unless  I  very  much  mistake,  a 
Plimer, — and  an  Engleheart." 

Lady  Mary  unlocked  the  cabinet  with  pretty 
eagerness,  and  put  a  small  morocco  case  into  his 
hands. 

"Then  here  is  something  you  will  like  to  see." 

For  a  moment  John  did  not  understand.  He 
glanced  quickly  from  the  row  of  tiny,  pearl- 
framed,  old-world  portraits,  of  handsome  nobles 
and  rose-tinted  court  dames,  to  the  very  indif- 
ferent modern  miniature  he  held. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  41 

The  portrait  of  a  schoolboy, — an  Eton  boy 
with  a  long  nose  and  small,  grey  eyes,  and  an  ex- 
pression distinctly  rather  sulky  and  lowering  than 
open  or  pleasing.  Not  a  stupid  face,  however,  by 
any  means. 

"  It  is  my  boy — Peter,"  said  Lady  Mary,  softly. 

To  her  the  face  was  something  more  than 
beautiful.  She  looked  up  at  John  with  a  happy 
certainty  of  his  interest  in  her  son. 

"  Here  he  is  again,  when  he  was  younger.  He 
was  a  pretty  little  fellow  then,  as  you  see." 

"Very  pretty.  But  not  very  like  you,"  said 
John,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  said. 

He  was  strangely  moved  and  touched  by  her 
evident  confidence  in  his  sympathy,  though  his 
artistic  tastes  were  outraged  by  the  two  portraits 
she  asked  him  to  admire.  He  reflected  that 
women  were  very  extraordinary  creatures ;  ready 
to  be  pleased  with  anything  Providence  might 
care  to  bestow  upon  them  in  the  shape  of  a  child, 
even  cross-looking  boys  with  long  noses  and 
small  eyes.  The  heir  of  Barracombe  resembled 
his  aunts  rather  than  his  parents. 

"  He  is  a  thorough  Crewys ;  not  a  bit  like  me. 
All  the  Setouns  are  fair,  I  believe.  Peter  is  very 
dark.  He  is  such  a  big  fellow  now ;  taller  than  I 
am.  I  sometimes  wish,"  said  Lady  Mary,  laying 
the  miniature  on  the  table  as  though  she  could  not 
bear  to  shut  it  away  immediately,  "that  one's 
children  never  grew  up.  They  are  such  darlings 


42  PETER'S  MOTHER 

when  they  are  little,  and  they  are  bound,  of  course, 
to  disappoint  one  sometimes  as  they  grow  older." 

John  Crewys  felt  almost  murderously  inclined 
towards  Peter.  So  the  young  cub  had  presumed 
to  disappoint  his  mother  as  he  grew  older!  How 
dared  he? 

Poor  Lady  Mary  was  quite  unconscious  of  the 
feelings  with  which  he  gazed  at  the  little  case  in 
his  hand. 

"  Not  that  my  boy  has  ever  really  disappointed 
me — yet,"  she  said,  with  her  pretty  apologetic 
laugh.  "  I  only  mean  that,  in  the  course  of  hu- 
man nature,  it's  bound  to  come,  now  and  then." 

"No  doubt,"  said  John,  gently. 

Then  she  allowed  him  to  examine  the  rest  of 
the  cabinet,  whilst  she  talked  on,  always  of  Peter 
— his  horsemanship  and  his  shooting  and  his 
prowess  in  every  kind  of  sport  and  game. 

Meanwhile,  Lady  Belstone  was  holding  a 
hurried  consultation  with  her  sister. 

"How  thoughtless  you  are,  Georgina,  asking 
our  cousin  into  the  dining-room  just  when  Ash 
must  be  laying  the  cloth  for  dinner.  He  will  be 
sadly  put  about." 

"Dear,  dear,  it  quite  slipped  my  memory, 
Isabella." 

"You  have  no  head  at  all,  Georgina." 

"Can  I  frame  an  excuse?"  said  Miss  Crewys, 
piteously,  "or  will  he  think  it  discourteous?"' 


PETER'S  MOTHER  43 

"Leave  it  to  me,  Georgina, "  said  Lady  Bel- 
stone,  with  the  air  of  a  diplomat.  "Mary,  my 
love!" 

Lady  Mary  started.     "Yes,  Isabella." 

"Georgina  has  very  properly  recalled  to  me 
that  candles  and  lamps  make  a  very  poor  light  for 
viewing  the  family  portraits.  You  know,  my  love, 
the  Vandyck  is  so  very  dark  and  black.  She  pro- 
poses, therefore,  with  your  permission,  to  act  as 
our  cousin's  cicerone  to-morrow  morning,  in  the 
daytime.  Shall  we  say — at  eleven  o'clock,  John ?" 

Canon  Birch  started  nervously,  and  the  doctor 
frowned  at  him. 

"  At  eleven  o'clock,"  said  John,  in  steady  tones; 
and,  as  he  spoke,  Sir  Timothy  entered  the  hall. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"SOME  tea,  Timothy?"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"If  you  please,  my  dear,"  said  Sir  Timothy, 
dropping  his  letters  into  the  box. 

"  I  am  afraid  the  tea  will  be  little  better  than 
poison,  brother,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  in  warning 
tones;  "it  has  stood  so  long." 

"  Perhaps  dear  Mary  intends  to  order  fresh  tea, 
Isabella,"  said  Miss  Crewys. 

"  It  hasn't  stood  so  very  long,"  said  Lady  Mary, 
looking  appealingly  at  Sir  Timothy;  "and  you 
know  Ash  is  always  cross  if  we  order  fresh  tea." 

"  Excuse  me,  my  love,"  said  Miss  Crewys.  "  I 
am  the  last  to  wish  to  trouble  poor  Ash  unneces- 
sarily, but  the  tea  waited  for  ten  minutes  before 
you  came  down." 

"My  dear  Mary,"  said  Sir  Timothy,  "will  you 
never  learn  to  be  punctual?  No ;  I  will  take  it  as 
it  is.  Poor  Ash  has  enough  to  do,  as  Georgina 
truly  says." 

Lady  Mary  sighed  rather  impatiently,  and  it 
occurred  to  John  Crewys  that  Sir  Timothy  spoke 
to  his  wife  exactly  as  he  might  have  addressed  a 
troublesome  child.  His  tone  was  gentler  than 
usual,  but  this  John  did  not  know. 

44 


PETER'S  MOTHER  45 

"  I  should  have  liked  to  take  a  turn  about  the 
grounds  with  you,"  said  Sir  Timothy  to  his  cousin, 
"  if  it  had  been  possible ;  but  I  am  afraid  it  is  get- 
ting too  dark  now." 

"  Surely  there  will  be  time  enough  to-morrow 
morning  for  that,  brother,"  said  Lady  Belstone. 

Sir  Timothy  had  walked  to  the  oriel  window, 
but  he  turned  away  as  he  answered  her. 

"I  may  be  otherwise  occupied  to-morrow." 

"  But  I  hope  the  opportunity  may  arise  before 
very  long,"  said  John,  cheerfully.  "I  should  like 
to  explore  these  woods." 

"You  will  have  to  come  with  me,  then,"  said 
Lady  Mary,  smiling.  "Timothy  hates  walking 
uphill,  and  I  should  love  to  show  our  beautiful 
views  to  a  stranger." 

"  I  do  not  like  you  to  tire  yourself,  my  dear," 
said  Sir  Timothy. 

"A  walk  through  Barracombe  woods  means 
simply  a  climb,  Mary,"  said  Lady  Belstone ;  "  and 
you  are  not  strong." 

"  I  am  perfectly  robust,  Isabella.  Do  allow 
me  at  least  the  use  of  my  limbs,"  said  Lady  Mary, 
impatiently. 

"No  woman,  certainly  no  lady,  can  be  called 
robust,"  said  Miss  Crewys,  severely. 

The  sudden  clanging  of  a  bell  changed  the 
conversation. 

"Visitors.     How  tiresome!"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"My  dear  Mary!"  said  Sir  Timothy. 


46  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  But  I  know  it  can't  be  anybody  pleasant, 
Timothy,"  said  his  wife,  with  rather  a  mischievous 
twinkle,  "  for  I  owe  calls  to  all  the  nice  people,  and 
it's  only  the  dull  ones  who  come  over  and  over 
again." 

"You  owe  calls,  Mary!"  said  Lady  Belstone,  in 
horrified  tones. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Miss  Crewys,  considerately 
lowering  her  voice  as  the  butler  and  footman 
crossed  the  hall  to  the  outer  vestibule,  "  that  dear 
Mary  is  more  than  a  little  remiss  in  civility  to  her 
neighbours." 

"  My  dear  admiral  never  permitted  me  to  post- 
pone returning  a  call  for  more  than  a  week. 
Royalty,  he  always  said,  the  same  day;  ordinary 
people  within  a  week,"  said  Lady  Belstone. 

"  When  royalty  calls  I  certainly  will  return  the 
visit  the  same  day,"  said  Lady  Mary,  petulantly. 
"  But  I  cannot  spend  my  whole  life  driving  along 
the  high-roads  from  one  house  to  another.  I  hate 
driving,  as  you  know,  Isabella." 

"  What  did  Providence  create  carriages  for  but 
to  be  driven  in?"  said  Lady  Belstone. 

"  You  will  give  John  a  wrong  impression  of  our 
worthy  neighbours,  Mary,"  said  Sir  Timothy, 
pompously.  "Personally,  I  am  always  glad  to 
see  them." 

"But  you  don't  have  to  return  their  calls, 
Timothy,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

The  canon  inadvertently  laughed .   Sir  Timothy 


PETER'S  MOTHER  47 

looked  annoyed.  Miss  Crewys  whispered  to  Lady 
Belstone,  unheard  save  by  the  doctor 

"  How  very  odd  and  flippant  poor  Mary  is  to- 
night— worse  than  usual!  What  can  it  be?" 

"It  is  just  the  presence  of  a  strange  gentleman 
that  is  upsetting  her,  poor  thing,"  said  her  sister, 
in  the  same  whisper.  "  Her  head  is  easily  turned. 
We^had  better  take  no  notice." 

The  doctor  muttered  something  emphatic 
beneath  his  breath. 

"Mrs.  and  Miss  Hewel,"  said  Ash,  advancing 
into  the  hall. 

"  Is  it  only  you  and  Sarah,  after  all?  What  a 
relief!  I  thougkt  it  was  visitors,"  cried  Lady 
Mary,  coming  forward  to  greet  them  very  kindly 
and  warmly.  "  Did  you  come  across  in  the  ferry  ? ' ' 

"No,  indeed.  You  know  how  I  dislike  the 
ferry.  I  have  the  long  drive  home  still  before  me. 
But  we  were  so  close  to  Barracombe,  at  the  Gil- 
berts' tea-party.  I  thought  we  should  be  certain 
to  meet  you  there,"  said  Mrs.  Hewel,  in  rather 
reproachful  tones.  "Sarah,  of  course,  wanted 
to  go  back  in  the  ferry,  but  I  am  always  doubly 
frightened  at  night — and  in  one's  best  clothes.  It 
was  quite  a  large  party." 

"I'm  afraid  I  forgot  all  about  it,"  said  Lady 
Mary,  with  a  conscience-stricken  glance  at  her 
husband. 

"  I  hope  you  sent  the  carriage  round  to  the 
stables?"  said  Sir  Timothy. 


48  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"No,  no;  we  mustn't  stop  a  minute.  But  I 
couldn't  help  just  popping  in — so  very  long  since 
I've  seen  you — and  all  this  happening  at  once," 
said  Mrs.  Hewel.  She  was  a  large,  stout  woman, 
with  breathless  manner  and  plaintive  voice .  ' '  And 
I  wanted  to  show  you  Sarah  in  her  first  grown- 
up clothes,  and  tell  you  about  her  too,"  she  added. 

"Bless  me!"  said  Sir  Timothy.  "You  don't 
mean  to  say  little  Sarah  is  grown  up." 

"  Oh  yes,  dear  Sir  Timothy ;  she  grew  up  the 
day  before  yesterday,"  said  Mrs.  Hewel. 

"Sharp  work,"  said  the  doctor,  grimly. 

"  I  mean,  of  course,  she  turned  up  her  hair, 
and  let  her  dresses  down.  It's  full  early,  I  know, 
but  it's  such  a  chance  for  Sarah — that's  partly 
what  I  came  about.  After  the  trouble  she's  been 
all  her  life  to  me,  and  all — just  going  to  that  ex- 
cellent school  in  Germany — here's  my  aunt  want- 
ing to  adopt  her,  or  as  good  as  adopt  her — Lady 
Tintern,  you  know." 

Everybody  who  knew  Mrs.  Hewel  knew  also 
that  Lady  Tintern  was  her  aunt;  and  Lady 
Tintern  was  a  very  great  lady  indeed. 

"  She  is  to  come  out  this  very  season ;  that  is 
why  I  took  her  to  the  Gilberts',  to  prepare  her  for 
the  great  plunge,"  said  Mrs.  Hewel,  not  intending 
to  be  funny.  "  It  will  be  a  change  for  Sarah,  such 
a  hoyden  as  she  has  always  been.  But  my  aunt 
won't  wait  once  she  has  got  a  fancy  into  her  head ; 
though  the  child  is  only  seventeen." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  49 

"  At  seventeen  /  was  still  in  the  nursery,  play- 
ing with  my  dolls,"  said  Lady  Belstone. 

"Oh,  Lady  Belstone!"  said  an  odd,  deep, 
protesting  voice. 

John  looked  with  amused  interest  at  the 
speaker.  The  unlucky  Sarah  had  taken  a  low 
chair  beside  her  hostess,  and  was  holding  one  of 
the  soft  white  hands  in  her  plump  gloved  fingers. 

Sarah  Hewel's  adoration  for  Lady  Mary  dated 
from  the  days  when  she  had  been  ferried  over  the 
Youle  with  her  nurse,  to  play  with  Peter,  in  his 
chubby  childhood.  Peter  had  often  been  cross 
and  always  tyrannical,  but  it  was  so  wonderful  to 
find  a  playmate  who  was  naughtier  than  herself, 
that  Sarah  had  secretly  admired  Peter.  She  was 
the  black  sheep  of  her  own  family,  and  in  continual 
disgrace  for  lesser  crimes  than  he  daily  committed 
with  impunity.  But  her  admiration  of  Peter  was 
tame  and  pale  beside  her  admiration  of  Lady 
Mary.  A  mother  who  never  scolded,  who  told  no 
tales,  who  petted  black  sheep  when  they  were 
bruised  and  torn  or  stained  entirely  through  their 
own  wickedness,  who  could  always  be  depended 
on  for  kisses  and  bonbons  and  fairy- tales,  seemed 
more  angelic  than  human  to  poor  little  Sarah; 
whose  own  mother  was  wrapt  up  in  her  two  irre- 
proachable sons,  and  had  small  affection  to  spare 
for  an  ugly,  tiresome  little  girl. 

Sarah,  however,  had  slowly  but  surely  strug- 
gled out  of  the  ugliness  of  her  childhood;  and 


50  PETER'S  MOTHER 

John  Crewys,  regarding  her  critically  in  the  lamp- 
light, decided  she  would  develop,  one  of  these 
days,  into  a  very  handsome  young  woman;  in 
spite  of  an  ungainly  stoop,  a  wide  mouth  that 
pouted  rather  too  much,  and  a  nose  that  inclined 
saucily  upwards. 

Her  colouring  was  fresh,  even  brilliant — the 
bright  rose,  and  creamy  tint  that  sometimes  ac- 
companies vivid  red  hair — and  of  a  vivid,  uncom- 
promising red  were  the  locks  that  crowned  Miss 
Sarah's  little  head,  and  shaded  her  blue-veined 
temples. 

Miss  Crewys  had,  in  consequence,  long  ago 
pronounced  her  to  be  a  positive  fright ;  and  Lady 
Belstone  had  declared  that  such  hair  would  prove 
an  insuperable  obstacle  to  her  chances  of  getting 
a  husband. 

"I  know  she's  very  young,"  said  Mrs.  Hewel, 
glancing  apologetically  at  her  offspring.  "  But 
what  can  I  do?  There's  no  going  against  Lady 
Tintern ;  and  at  seventeen  she  ought  to  be  some- 
thing more  than  a  tomboy,  after  all." 

"  You  were  married  at  seventeen,  weren't 
you?"  said  Sarah  to  Lady  Mary,  in  her  deep, 
almost  tragic  voice — a  voice  that  commanded 
attention,  though  it  came  oddly  from  her  girlish 
chest. 

"Sarah!"  said  Mrs.  Hewel. 

Lady  Mary  started  and  smiled.  "Me?  Yes, 
Sarah;  I  was  married  at  seventeen." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  51 

"Mamma  says  nobody  can  be  married  prop- 
erly— before  they're  one  and  twenty.  I  knew 
it  was  rot,"  said  Sarah,  triumphantly. 

"  Miss  Sarah  retains  the  outspokenness  of  her 
recently  discarded  childhood,  I  perceive,"  said  Sir 
Timothy,  stiffly. 

"Sarah!"  said  her  mother,  indignantly,  "I 
said  not  unless  they  had  their  parents'  consent. 
I  was  not  thinking  of  Lady  Mary,  as  you  know 
very  well." 

"  Your  people  didn't  say  you  were  too  young 
to  marry  at  seventeen,  did  they?"  said  Sarah, 
caressing  Lady  Mary's  hand. 

Lady  Mary  smiled  at  her,  but  shook  her  head. 
"You  want  to  know  too  much,  Sarah." 

"Oh,  I  forgot,"  said  Sarah  the  artless.  "Sir 
Timothy  was  your  guardian,  so,  of  course,  there 
was  nobody  to  stop  his  marrying  you  if  he  liked. 
I  suppose  you  had  to  do  what  he  told  you." 

"Oh,  Sarah,  will  you  cease  chattering?"  cried 
her  mother. 

"  I  hope  you  have  good  news  of  your  sons  in 
South  Africa,  Mrs.  Hewel,"  said  the  canon, 
briskly  advancing  to  the  rescue. 

Mrs.  Hewel's  voice  changed.  "Thank  you, 
canon;  they  were  all  right  when  we  heard  last. 
Tom  is  in  Natal,  so  I  feel  happier  about  him ;  but 
Willie,  of  course,  is  in  the  thick  of  it  all — and  the 
news  to-day — isn't  reassuring." 

"  But  you  are  proud  of  them  both,"  said  Lady 


52  PETER'S  MOTHER 

Mary,  softly.  "  Every  mother  must  be  proud  to 
have  sons  able  and  willing  to  fight  for  their 
country." 

"We  may  feel  differently  concerning  the  just- 
ice of  this  war,"  said  Sir  Timothy,  clearing  his 
throat;  and  Lady  Mary  shrugged  her  shoulders, 
whilst  the  canon  jumped  from  his  chair,  and  sat 
meekly  down  again  on  catching  the  doctor's  eye. 
"  But  in  our  sympathy  with  our  brave  soldiers  we 
are  all  one,  Mrs.  Hewel." 

Sarah  sprang  forward.  "You  don't  mean  to 
say  you're  still  a  pro-Boer,  Sir  Timothy?"  she 
exclaimed.  "Well,  mamma — talking  of  the  jus- 
tice of  the  war — when  Tom  and  Willie  are  risking 
their  lives" — she  broke  into  a  sudden  sob — "and 
now  Peter " 

"Peter!"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  said  Sarah,  running  to  her 
friend.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you — talking  of 
the  war — and — and  the  boys — when  you  must  be 
thinking  only  of  Peter."  She  wrung  her  hands 
together  piteously. 

"Of  Peter!"  Lady  Mary  repeated. 

"We  only  heard  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Hewel, 
"  and  came  in  hoping  for  more  details.  My  cousin 
George,  who  is  also  going  out  with  Lord  Ferries, 
happened  to  mention  in  his  letter  that  Peter  had 
joined  the  corps." 

"  I  think  I  can  explain  how  the  mistake  arose," 
said  Sir  Timothy,  stiffly.  "  Peter  wrote  for  per- 


PETER'S  MOTHER  53 

mission  to  join,  and  I  refused.  My  son  is  fortu- 
nately too  young  to  be  of  any  use  in  a  contest  I 
regard  with  horror." 

"  But  Cousin  George  was  helping  Peter  to  get 
his  kit,  because  they  were  to  sail  at  such  short 
notice,"  cried  Sarah. 

"Sarah,"  said  her  mother,  in  breathless  in- 
dignation, "will  you  be  silent?" 

"What  does  this  mean,  Timothy?"  said  Lady 
Mary,  trembling. 

She  stood  by  the  centre  table;  and  the  hang- 
ing lamp  above  shed  its  light  on  her  brown  hair, 
and  flashed  in  her  blue  eyes,  and  from  the  diamond 
ring  she  wore. 

The  doctor  rose  from  his  chair. 

"  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand,"  said  Sir 
Timothy. 

"It  means,"  said  Sarah,  half -hysterically, — 
"  oh,  can't  you  see  what  it  means?  It  just  means 
that  Peter  is  going  to  South  Africa,  whether  you 
like  it  or  not." 

*"  There  must  be  some  mistake,  of  course,"  said 
Mrs.  Hewel,  in  distressed  tones.  "And  yet — 
George's  letter  was  so  very  clear." 

Dr.  Blundell  touched  the  canon's  arm. 

"Shall  I — must  I — "  whispered  the  canon, 
nervously. 

"  There  is  no  help  for  it,"  said  the  doctor.  He 
was  looking  at  Lady  Mary  as  he  spoke.  Her  face 
was  deathly ;  her  little  frail  hand  grasped  the  table. 


54  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"Sir  Timothy,"  said  the  canon,  "I — I  have  a 
communication  to  make  to  you." 

"On  this  subject?"  said  Sir  Timothy. 

"A  letter  from  Peter." 

"Why  did  you  not  say  so  earlier?"  said  Sir 
Timothy,  harshly. 

"  I  will  explain,  if  you  will  kindly  give  me  five 
minutes  in  the  study." 

"A  letter  from  Peter,"  said  Lady  Mary,  "and 
not — to  me." 

She  looked  round  at  them  all  with  a  little 
vacant  smile. 

John  Crewys,  who  knew  nothing  of  Peter's 
letter,  had  already  grasped  the  situation.  He 
divined  also  that  Lady  Mary  was  fighting  pite- 
ously  against  the  conviction  that  Sarah's  news 
was  true. 

"How  could  we  guess  you  did  not  know?" 
said  Mrs.  Hewel,  almost  weeping. 

"I  am  still  in  the  dark,"  said  Sir  Timothy, 
coldly. 

"Birch  will  explain  at  once,"  said  the  doctor, 
impatiently. 

"  Peter  writes — asking  me, — I  am  sure  I  don't 
know  why  he  pitched  upon  me, — to — break  the 
news  to  you,  that  he  has  joined  Lord  Ferries' 
Horse;  feeling  it  his — his  duty  to  his  country 
to  do  so,"  said  the  unhappy  canon,  folding  and 
unfolding  the  letter  he  held,  with  agitated 
fingers. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  55 

"I  knew  there  would  be  a  satisfactory  ex- 
planation," said  Mrs.  Hewel,  tearfully.  "Dear 
Lady  Mary,  having  so  inadvertently  anticipated 
Peter's  letter,  there  is  only  one  thing  left  for  me  to 
do.  I  must  at  least  leave  you  and  Sir  Timothy 
in  peace  to  read  it.  Come,  Sarah." 

"Allow  me  to  put  you  into  your  carriage," 
said  Sir  Timothy,  in  a  voice  of  iron. 

Sarah  followed  them  to  the  door,  paused  irre- 
solutely, and  stole  back  to  Lady  Mary's  side. 

"Say  you're  not  angry  with  me,  dear,  beauti- 
ful Lady  Mary,"  she  whispered  passionately. 
"Do  say  you're  not  angry.  I  didn't  know  it 
would  make  you  so  unhappy.  It  was  partly  my 
fault  for  telling  Peter  in  the  holidays  that  only 
old  men,  invalids,  and — and  cowards — were  shirk- 
ing South  Africa.  I  thought  you'd  be  glad,  like 
me,  that  Peter  should  go  and  fight  like  all  the 
other  boys." 

"Sarah,"  said  Dr.  Blundell,  gently,  "don't 
you  see  that  Lady  Mary  can't  attend  to  you  now? 
Come  away,  like  a  good  girl." 

He  took  her  arm,  and  led  her  out  of  the  hall ; 
and  Sarah  forgot  she  had  grown  up  the  day  be- 
fore yesterday,  and  sobbed  loudly  as  she  went 
away. 

Lady  Mary  lifted  the  miniature  from  the  table, 
and  looked  at  it  without  a  word;  but  from  the 
sofa,  the  two  old  sisters  babbled  audibly  to  each 
other. 


56  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  I  always  said,  Isabella,  that  if  poor  Mary 
spoilt  Peter  so  terribly,  something  would  happen 
to  him." 

"What  sad  nonsense  you  talk,  Georgina.  No- 
thing has  happened  to  him — yet." 

"He  has  defied  his  father,  Isabella." 

"He  has  obeyed  his  country's  call,  Georgina. 
Had  the  admiral  been  alive,  he  would  certainly 
have  volunteered." 

John  Crewys  made  an  involuntary  step  for- 
ward and  placed  himself  between  the  sofa  and  the 
table,  as  though  to  shield  Lady  Mary  from  their 
observation,  but  he  could  not  prevent  their  words 
from  reaching  her  ears. 

She  whispered  to  him  very  softly.  "Will  you 
get  the  letter  for  me  ?  I  want  to  see — for  myself — 
what — what  Peter  says." 

"Go  quietly  into  the  library,"  said  John, 
bending  over  her  for  a  moment.  "  I  will  bring  it 
you  there  immediately." 

She  obeyed  him  without  a  word. 

John  turned  to  the  sofa.  "  I  beg  your  pardon, 
canon,"  he  said  courteously,  "but  Lady  Mary 
cannot  bear  this  suspense.  Allow  me  to  take  her 
son's  letter  to  her  at  once." 

"  I — I  am  only  waiting  for  Sir  Timothy.  It  is 
to  him  I  have  to  break  the  news;  though,  of 
course,  there  is  nothing  that  Lady  Mary  may  not 
know,"  said  the  canon,  in  a  polite  but  flurried  tone. 
"  I  really  should  not  like " 


PETER'S  MOTHER  57 

"My  brother  must  see  it  first,"  said  Miss 
Crewys,  decidedly. 

"  Exactly.  I  am  sure  Sir  Timothy  would  not 
be  pleased  if —  Bless  my  soul!" 

For  John,  with  a  slight  bow  of  apology,  and  his 
grave  air  of  authority,  had  quietly  taken  the  letter 
from  the  canon's  undecided  ringers,  and  walked 
away  with  it  into  the  library. 

"How  very  oddly  our  cousin  John  behaves!" 
said  Lady  Belstone,  indignantly.  "  Almost  snatch- 
ing the  letter  from  your  hand." 

"Depend  upon  it,  Mary  inspired  his  action," 
said  Miss  Crewys,  angrily.  "  I  saw  her  whispering 
away  to  him.  A  man  she  never  set  eyes  on 
before." 

"Pray  are  we  not  to  hear  the  contents?"  said 
Lady  Belstone,  quivering  with  indignation. 

"  I  suppose  he  thinks  Lady  Mary  should  make 
the  communication  herself  to  Sir  Timothy," 
gasped  the  canon.  "  I  am  sure  I  have  no  desire 
to  fulfil  so  unpleasing  a  task.  Still,  the  matter  was 
entrusted  to  me.  However,  the  main  substance 
has  been  told;  there  can  be  no  further  secret 
about  it.  My  only  care  was  that  Sir  Timothy 
should  not  be  unduly  agitated." 

"  It  is  a  comfort  to  find  that  some  one  can  con- 
sider the  feelings  of  our  poor  brother,"  said  Miss 
Crewys. 

"Do  give  me  your  arm  to  the  drawing-room, 
canon,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  rightly  judging  that 


58  PETER'S  MOTHER 

the  canon  would  reveal  the  whole  contents  of 
Peter's  letter  to  her  more  easily  in  private.  "  The 
shock  has  made  me  feel  quite  faint.  You,  too, 
Georgina,  are  looking  pale." 

"  It  is  not  the  shock,  but  the  draught,  which  is 
affecting  me,  Isabella, — Sir  Timothy  thoughtlessly 
keeping  the  door  open  so  long.  I  will  accompany 
you  to  the  drawing-room." 

"But  Sir  Timothy  may  want  me,"  said  the 
canon,  uneasily. 

"Bless  the  man!  they  Ve  got  the  letter  itself, 
what  can  they  want  with  you?"  said  her  ladyship, 
vigorously  propelling  her  supporter  out  of  reach 
of  possible  interruption.  "Close  the  door  behind 
us,  Georgina,  I  beg,  or  that  odious  doctor  will  be 
racing  after  us." 

"  He  takes  far  too  much  upon  himself.  I  have 
no  idea  of  permitting  country  apothecaries  to  be 
so  familiar,"  said  Miss  Crewys. 


CHAPTER  V 

LADY  MARY,  coming  from  the  library  with  the  let- 
ter in  her  hand,  met  her  husband  in  the  hall. 

"Timothy!" 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully.  Her  face  was 
very  pale  as  she  gave  him  the  letter.  Sir  Timothy 
took  out  his  glasses,  wiped  them  deliberately,  and 
put  them  on. 

"  Never  mind  reading  it.  I  can  tell  you  in  one 
word,"  she  said,  trembling  with  impatience. 
"My  boy  is  sailing  for  South  Africa  to-morrow 
morning." 

"I  prefer,"  said  Sir  Timothy,  "to  read  the 
letter  for  myself." 

"Oh,  do  be  quick!"  she  said,  half  under  her 
breath. 

But  he  read  it  slowly  twice,  and  folded  it.  He 
was  really  thunderstruck.  Peter  was  accustomed 
to  write  polite  platitudes  to  his  parent,  and  had 
presumably  not  intended  that  his  letter  to  the 
canon  should  be  actually  read  by  Sir  Timothy, 
when  he  had  asked  that  the  contents  of  it  should 
be  broken  to  him. 

"Selfish,  disobedient,  headstrong,  deceitful 
boy!"  said  Sir  Timothy. 


60  PETER'S  MOTHER 

Lady  Mary  started.  "  How  can  you  talk  so! " 
Her  gentle  voice  sounded  almost  fierce.  "At 
least  he  has  proved  himself  a  man.  And  he  is 
right.  It  was  a  shame  and  a  disgrace  for  him  to 
stay  at  home,  whilst  his  comrades  did  their  duty. 
I  say  it  a  thousand  times,  though  I  am  his  mother." 

Then  she  broke  down.  "Oh,  Peter,  my  boy, 
my  boy,  how  could  you  leave  me  without  a  word ! " 

"Perhaps  this  step  was  taken  with  your  con- 
nivance after  all?"  said  Sir  Timothy,  suspiciously. 
He  could  not  follow  her  rapid  changes  of  mood, 
and  had  listened  resentfully  to  her  defence  of  her 
son. 

"Timothy!"  said  Lady  Mary,  trembling, 
"when  have  I  ever  been  disloyal  to  you  in  word 
or  deed?" 

"  Never,  I  hope,"  said  Sir  Timothy.  His  voice 
shook  a  little.  "  I  do  not  doubt  you  for  a  moment, 
Mary.  But  you  spoke  with  such  strange  vehem- 
ence, so  unlike  your  usual  propriety  of  manner." 

She  broke  into  a  wild  laugh  which  pained  and 
astonished  him. 

"Did  I?  I  must  have  forgotten  myself  for  a 
moment." 

"  You  must,  indeed.  Pray  be  calm.  I  under- 
stand that  this  must  be  a  terrible  shock  to  you." 

"  It  is  not  a  shock,"  said  Lady  Mary,  defiantly. 
"  I  glory  in  it.  I — I  wish  him  to  go.  Oh,  Peter 
my  darling!" 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  61 

"It  would  be  more  to  the  purpose,"  said  Sir 
Timothy,  "to  consider  what  is  to  be  done." 

"Could  we  stop  him?"  she  cried  eagerly,  and 
then  changed  once  more.  "No,  no;  I  wouldn't 
if  I  could.  He  would  never  forgive  me." 

"Of  course,  we  cannot  stop  him,"  said  Sir 
Timothy.  He  raised  his  voice  as  he  was  wont 
when  he  was  angry.  Canon  Birch,  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, heard  the  loud  threatening  tones,  and 
was  thankful  for  the  door  which  shut  him  from 
Sir  Timothy's  presence.  "He  has  laid  his  plans 
for  thwarting  my  known  wishes  too  well.  I  do 
not  know  what  might  be  said  if  we  stopped  him. 
I — I  won't  have  my  name  made  a  laughing-stock. 
I  am  a  Crewys,  and  the  honour  of  the  family  lies 
in  my  hands.  I  can't  give  the  world  a  right  to 
suspect  a  Crewys  of  cowardice,  by  preventing  his 
departure  on  active  service.  We  have  fought 
before — in  a  better  cause." 

"We  won't  discuss  the  cause,"  said  Lady 
Mary,  gently.  When  Sir  Timothy  began  to  shout, 
she  always  grew  calm.  "Then  you  will  not  tele- 
graph to  my  cousin  Ferries?" 

"  Ferries  ought  to  have  written  to  me,  and  not 
taken  the  word  of  a  mere  boy,  like  Peter," 
stormed  Sir  Timothy.  "  But  the  fact  is,  I  never 
flattered  Ferries  as  he  expected ;  it  is  not  my  way 
to  flatter  any  one;  and  consequently  he  took  a 
dislike  to  me.  He  must  have  known  what  my 
views  are,  I  am  sure  he  did  it  on  purpose," 


62  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  It  was  natural  he  should  believe  Peter,  and 
I  don't  think  he  knows  you  well  enough  to  dislike 
you,"  said  Lady  Mary,  simply.  "He  has  only 
seen  you  twice,  Timothy." 

"That  was  evidently  sufficient,"  said  Sir 
Timothy,  meaning  to  be  ironical,  and  unaware 
that  he  was  stating  a  plain  fact.  ' '  I  shall  certainly 
not  telegraph  to  tell  him  that  my  son  has  lied  to 
him,  well  as  Peter  deserves  that  I  should  do  so." 

" Oh,  don't,  don't;  you  are  so  hard!"  she  said 
piteously.  "  If  you'd  only  listened  to  him  when 
he  implored  you  to  let  him  go,  we  could  have 
made  his  last  days  at  home  all  they  should  be. 
He's  been  hiding  in  London,  poor  Peter;  getting 
his  outfit  by  stealth,  ashamed,  whilst  other  boys 
are  being  fdted  and  praised  by  their  people,  proud 
of  earning  so  early  their  right  to  be  considered 
men.  And — and  he's  only  a  boy.  And  he  said 
himself,  all's  fair  in  love  and  war.  Indeed, 
Timothy,  it  is  an  exceptional  case." 

"Mary,  your  weakness  is  painful,  and  your 
idolatry  of  Peter  will  bring  its  own  punishment. 
The  part  of  his  deception  that  should  pain  you 
most  is  the  want  of  heart  he  has  displayed,"  said 
Sir  Timothy,  bitterly. 

"And  doesn't  it?"  she  said,  with  a  pathetic 
smile.  "But  one  oughtn't  to  expect  too  much 
heart  from  a  boy,  ought  one?  It's — it's  not  a 
healthy  sign.  You  said  once  you  were  glad  he 
wasn't  sentimental,  like  me." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  63 

"  I  should  have  wished  him  to  exhibit  proper 
feeling  on  proper  occasions.  His  present  triumph 
over  my  authority  involves  his  departure  to  cer- 
tain danger  and  possible  death,  without  even 
affording  us  the  opportunity  of  bidding  him  fare- 
well. He  is  ready  and  willing  to  leave  us  thus." 

Lady  Mary  uttered  a  stifled  scream.  "  But  I 
won't  let  him.  How  can  you  think  his  mother 
will  let  him  go  like  that?" 

"  How  can  you  help  it?" 

She  pressed  her  trembling  hands  to  her  fore- 
head. "  I  will  think.  There  is  a  way.  There 
are  plenty  of  ways.  I  can  drive  to  the  junction — 
it's  not  much  further  than  Brawnton — and  catch 
the  midnight  express,  and  get  to  Southampton  by 
daybreak.  I  know  it  can  be  done.  Ash  will  look 
out  the  trains.  Why  do  you  look  at  me  like 
that?  You're  not  going  to  stop  my  going,  are 
you?  You're  not  going  to  try  and  stop  me,  are 
you?  For  you  won't  succeed.  Oh  yes,  I  know 
I've  been  an  obedient  wife,  Timothy.  But  I — I 
defied  you  once  before  for  Peter's  sake ;  when  he 
was  such  a  little  boy,  and  you  wanted  to  punish 
him — don't  you  remember?" 

"Don't  talk  so,  Mary,"  said  Sir  Timothy, 
almost  soothingly.  Her  vehemence  really  alarmed 
and  distressed  him.  "It  is  not  like  you  to  talk 
like  this.  You  will  be  sorry — afterwards,"  he 
said;  and  his  voice  softened. 

She  responded  instantly.     She  came  closer  to 


64  PETER'S  MOTHER 

him,  and  took  his  big  shaking  hand  into  her 
gentle  clasp. 

"  I  should  be  sorry  afterwards,"  she  said,  "and 
so  would  you.  Even  you  would  be  sorry,  Tim- 
othy, if  anything  happened  to  Peter.  I'll  try 
and  not  make  any  more  excuses  for  him,  if  you 
like.  I  know  he's  not  a  child  now.  He's  al- 
most a  man ;  and  men  seem  to  me  to  grow  harsh 
and  unloving  as  they  grow  older.  I  try,  now  and 
then,  to  shut  my  eyes  and  see  him  as  he  once  was ; 
but  all  the  time  I  know  that  the  little  boy  who 
used  to  be  Peter  has  gone  away  for  ever  and  ever 
and  ever.  If  he  had  died  when  he  was  little  he 
would  always  have  been  my  little  boy,  wouldn't 
he?  But,  thank  God,  he  didn't  die.  He's  going 
to  be  a  great  strong  man,  and  a  brave  soldier,  and 
— and  all  I've  ever  wanted  him  to  be — when  he's 
got  over  these  wilful  days  of  boyhood.  But  he 
mustn't  go  without  his  father's  blessing  and  his 
mother's  kiss." 

"  He  has  chosen  to  do  so,  Mary,"  said  Sir  Tim- 
othy, coldly. 

She  clung  to  him  caressingly.  "But  you're 
going  to  forgive  him  before  he  goes,  Timothy. 
There's  no  time  to  be  angry  before  he  goes.  It 
may  be  too  late  to-morrow." 

"  It  may  be  too  late  to-morrow,"  repeated  Sir 
Timothy,  heavily. 

He  resented,  in  a  dull,  self -pitying  fashion,  the 
fact  that  his  wife's  thoughts  were  so  exclusively 


PETER'S  MOTHER  65 

fixed  on  Peter,  in  her  ignorance  of  his  own  more 
immediate  danger. 

"Don't  think  I'm  blind  to  his  faults,"  urged 
Lady  Mary,  "  only  I  can  laugh  at  them  better  than 
you  can,  because  I  know  all  the  while  that  at  the 
very  bottom  of  his  heart  he's  only  my  baby  Peter 
after  all.  He's  not — God  bless  him — he's  not  the 
dreary,  cold-blooded,  priggish  boy  he  sometimes 
pretends  to  be.  Don't  remember  him  like  that 
now,  Timothy.  Think  of  that  morning  in  June — 
that  glorious,  sunny  morning  in  June,  when  you 
knelt  by  the  open  window  in  my  room  and 
thanked  God  because  you  had  a  son.  Think  of 
that  other  summer  day  when  we  couldn't  bear 
even  to  look  at  the  roses  because  little  Peter  was 
so  ill,  and  we  were  afraid  he  was  going  back  to 
heaven." 

Her  soft,  rapid  words  touched  Sir  Timothy  to 
a  vague  feeling  of  pity  for  her,  and  for  Peter,  and 
for  himself.  But  the  voice  of  the  charmer,  charm 
she  never  so  wisely,  had  no  power,  after  all,  to 
dispel  the  dark  cloud  that  was  hanging  over  him. 

The  sorrow  gave  way  to  a  keener  anxiety. 
The  calmness  of  mind  which  the  great  surgeon  had 
prescribed — the  placid  courage,  largely  aided  by 
dulness  of  imagination,  which  had  enabled  poor 
Sir  Timothy  to  keep  in  the  very  background  of 
his  thoughts  all  apprehensions  for  the  morrow — 
where  were  they? 

He  repressed  with  an  effort  the  emotion  which 


66  PETER'S  MOTHER 

threatened  to  master  him,  and  forced  himself  to 
be  calm.  When  he  spoke  again  his  voice  sounded 
not  much  less  measured  and  pompous  than  usual. 

"  My  dear,  you  are  agitating  yourself  and  me. 
Let  us  confine  ourselves  to  the  subject  in  hand." 

Lady  Mary  dropped  the  unresponsive  hand  she 
held  so  warmly  pressed  between  her  own,  and 
stepped  back. 

"Ah,  forgive  me!"  she  said  in  clear  tones. 
"It's  so  difficult  to " 

<«  TV.  0  " 

"  To  be  exactly  what  you  wish.  To  be  always 
on  guard.  My  feelings  broke  bounds  for  once." 

"  Calm  yourself, ' '  said  Sir  Timothy.  "  And  be- 
sides, so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  your  pleading  for 
Peter  is  unnecessary." 

"You  have  forgiven  him?"  she  cried  joyfully, 
yet  almost  incredulously. 

He  paused,  and  then  said  with  solemnity :  "I 
have  forgiven  him,  Mary.  It  is  not  the  moment 
for  me  to  cherish  resentment,  least  of  all  against 
my  only  son." 

"Ah,  thank  God!  Then  you  will  come  to 
Southampton? " 

"  That  is  impossible.  But  I  will  telegraph  my 
forgiveness  and  the  blessing  which  he  has  not 
sought, that  he  may  receive  it  before  the  ship  sails." 

"  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  doing  even  so  much 
as  that,  Timothy,  and  for  not  being  angry.  Then 
I  must  go  alone?" 


PETER'S  MOTHER  67 

"No,  no." 

"Understand  me,"  said  Lady  Mary,  in  a  low 
voice,  "for  I  am  in  earnest.  I  have  never  de- 
ceived you.  I  will  not  defy  you  in  secret,  like 
Peter;  but  I  will  go  and  bid  my  only  son  God- 
speed, though  the  whole  world  conspired  to  pre- 
vent me.  /  will  go!" 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  You  speak,"  said  Sir  Timothy,  resentfully,  "as 
though  I  had  habitually  thwarted  your  wishes." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  his  wife,  softly,  "you  never 
even  found  out  what  they  were." 

He  did  not  notice  the  words;  it  is  doubtful 
whether  he  heard  them. 

"  It  has  been  my  best  endeavour  to  promote 
your  happiness  throughout  our  married  life,  Mary, 
so  far  as  I  considered  it  compatible  with  your 
highest  welfare.  I  do  not  pretend  I  can  enter 
into  the  high-flown  and  romantic  feelings  en- 
gendered by  your  reprehensible  habit  of  novel- 
reading." 

"You've  scolded  me  so  often  for  that,"  said 
Lady  Mary,  half  mockingly,  half  sadly.  "Can't 
we — keep  to  the  subject  in  hand,  as  you  said  just 
now?" 

"I  have  a  reason,  a  strong  reason,"  said  Sir 
Timothy,  "  for  wishing  you  to  remain  at  home  to- 
morrow. I  had  hoped,  by  concealing  it  from  you, 
to  spare  you  some  of  the  painful  suspense  and 
anxiety  which  I  am  myself  experiencing," 


68  PETER'S  MOTHER 

Lady  Mary  laughed. 

"  How  like  a  man  to  suppose  a  woman  is  spared 
anything  by  being  kept  in  the  dark!  I  knew 
something  was  wrong.  Dr.  Blundell  and  Canon 
Birch  are  in  your  confidence,  I  presume?  They 
kept  exchanging  glances  like  two  mysterious  owls. 
Your  sisters  are  not,  or  they  would  be  sighing  and 
shaking  their  heads.  And  John — John  Crewys? 
Oh,  he  is  a  lawyer.  When  does  a  visitor  ever 
come  here  except  on  business?  He  has  something 
to  do  with  it.  Ah,  to  advise  you  for  nothing  over 
your  purchase  of  the  Crown  lands !  You  have  got 
into  some  difficulty  over  that,  or  something  of  the 
kind?  You  brought  him  down  here  for  some 
special  purpose,  I  am  sure;  but  I  did  not  know 
him  well  enough,  and  I  knew  you  too  well,  to  ask 
why." 

"Mary,  what  has  come  to  you?  I  never  knew 
you  quite  like  this  before.  I  dislike  this  extra- 
ordinary flippancy  of  tone  very  much." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Lady  Mary ;  "  make 
allowance  for  me  this  once.  I  learnt  ten  minutes 
ago  that  my  boy  was  going  to  the  war.  I  must 
either  laugh  or — or  cry,  and  you  wouldn't  like  me 
to  do  that;  but  it's  a  way  women  have  when 
their  hearts  are  half  broken." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  he  said  helplessly. 

Lady  Mary  looked  at  him  as  though  she  had 
awakened,  frightened,  to  the  consciousness  of  her 
own  temerity. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  69 

"I  don't  quite  understand  myself,  I  think," 
she  said,  in  a  subdued  voice.  "  I  won't  torment 
you  any  more,  Timothy;  I  will  be  as  calm  and 
collected — as  you  wish.  Only  let  me  go." 

"  Will  you  not  listen  to  my  reason  for  wishing 
you  to  remain  at  home?"  he  said  sternly.  " It  is 
an  important  one." 

"I  had  forgotten,"  she  said  indifferently. 
"  How  can  there  be  any  business  in  the  world  half 
so  important  to  me  as  seeing  my  boy  once  more 
before  he  sails?" 

The  colour  of  Sir  Timothy's  ruddy  face  deep- 
ened almost  to  purple,  his  grey  eyes  glowered 
sullen  resentment  at  his  wife. 

"  Since  you  desire  to  have  your  way  in  oppo- 
sition to  my  wishes,  go!"  he  thundered.  "I  will 
not  hinder  you  further." 

But  his  sonorous  wrath  was  too  familiar  to  be 
impressive. 

Lady  Mary's  expression  scarcely  changed  when 
Sir  Timothy  raised  his  voice.  She  turned,  how- 
ever, at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  and  spoke  to  him 
again. 

"Let  me  just  go  and  give  the  order  for  my 
things  to  be  packed,  Timothy,  and  tell  Ash  to  go 
and  find  out  about  the  trains,  and  I  will  return 
and  listen  to  whatever  you  wish — I  will,  indeed. 
I  could  not  pay  proper  attention  to  anything  until 
I  knew  that  was  being  done." 

Sir  Timothy  did  not  trust  himself  to  speak. 


70  PETER'S  MOTHER 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  the  slender  figure  passed 
swiftly  up  the  stairs. 

Sir  Timothy  walked  twice  deliberately  up  and 
down  the  empty  hall,  and  felt  his  pulse.  The 
slow,  steady  throb  reassured  him.  He  opened  the 
door  of  the  study. 

"John,"  said  Sir  Timothy,  "would  you  kindly 
come  out  here  and  speak  to  me  for  a  moment? 
Dr.  Blundell,  would  you  have  the  goodness  to 
await  me  a  little  longer?  You  will  find  the  Lon- 
don papers  there." 

"I  have  them,"  said  Dr.  Blundell,  from  the 
armchair  by  the  study  fire. 

John  Crewys  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and 
looked  rather  anxiously  at  his  cousin.  It  struck 
him  that  Sir  Timothy  had  lost  some  of  his  ruddy 
colour,  and  that  his  face  looked  drawn  and  old. 

But  the  squire  placed  himself  with  his  back  to 
the  log  fire,  and  made  an  effort  to  speak  in  his 
voice  of  everyday.  His  slightly  pompous,  patron- 
izing manner  returned  upon  him. 

"  You  are  doubtless  accustomed,  John,  in  the 
course  of  your  professional  work,"  he  said,  "to 
advise  in  difficult  matters.  You  come  among  us 
a  stranger — and  unprejudiced.  Will  you — er — 
give  me  the  benefit  of  your  opinion?" 

"To  the  best  of  my  ability,"  said  John.  He 
paused,  and  added  gently,  "I  am  sorry  for  this 
fresh  trouble  that  has  come  upon  you." 

"  That  is  the  subject  on  which  I  mean  to  con- 


PETER'S  MOTHER  71 

suit  you.  Do  you  consider  that — that  her  hus- 
band or  her  child  should  stand  first  in  a  woman's 
eyes?" 

"Her  husband,  undoubtedly,"  said  John, 
readily,  "but " 

"But  what?"  said  Sir  Timothy,  impatiently. 
A  gleam  of  satisfaction  had  broken  over  his  heavy 
face  at  his  cousin's  reply. 

"I  speak  from  a  man's  point  of  view,"  said 
John.  "Woman — and  possibly  Nature — may 
speak  differently." 

"Your  judgment,  however,  coincides  with 
mine,  which  is  all  that  matters,"  said  Sir  Timothy. 
He  did  not  perceive  the  twinkle  in  John's  eyes  at 
this  reply.  "In  my  opinion  there  are  only  two 
ways  of  looking  at  every  question — the  right  way 
and  the  wrong  way." 

"My  profession  teaches  me,"  said  John,  "that 
there  are  as  many  different  points  of  view  as  there 
are  parties  to  a  case." 

"Then — from  my  point  of  view,"  said  Sir 
Timothy,  with  an  air  of  waving  all  other  points  of 
view  away  as  irrelevant,  "since  my  wife,  very 
naturally,  desires  to  see  her  son  again  before  he 
sails,  am  I  justified  in  allowing  her  to  set  off  in 
ignorance  of  the  ordeal  that  awaits  me?" 

"  Good  heavens,  no ! "  cried  John.  "  Should  the 
operation  prove  unsuccessful,  you  would  be  en- 
tailing upon  her  a  lifelong  remorse." 

"  I  did  not  look  upon  it  in  that  light,"  said  Sir 


72  PETER'S  MOTHER 

Timothy,  rather  stiffly.  "The  propriety  or  the 
impropriety  of  her  going  remains  in  any  case  the 
same,  whether  the  operation  succeeds  or  fails.  I 
feared  that  it  would  be  the  wrong  thing  to  allow 
her  to  go  at  all;  that  it  might  cause  comment 
were  she  absent  from  my  side  at  such  a  critical 
juncture." 

"  I  see,"  said  John.  His  mobile,  expressive  face 
and  bright  hazel  eyes  seemed  to  light  up  for  one 
instant  with  scorn  and  wonder ;  then  he  recollected 
himself.  "It  is  natural  you  should  wish  for  her 
sustaining  presence,  no  doubt,"  he  said. 

"  I  trust  you  do  not  suppose  that  I  should  be 
selfishly  considering  my  own  personal  feelings  at 
such  a  time,"  said  Sir  Timothy,  in  a  lofty  tone  of 
reproof.  "I  am  only  desirous  of  doing  what  is 
right  in  the  matter.  I  am  asking  your  advice 
because  I  feel  that  my  self-command  has  been 
shaken  considerably  by  this  unexpected  blow.  I 
am  less  sure  of  my  judgment  than  usual  in  conse- 
quence. However,  if  you  think  my  wife  ought  to 
be  told" — John  nodded  very  decidedly — "let  her 
be  told.  I  am  bound  to  say  Dr.  Blundell  thought 
so  too,  though  his  opinion  is  neither  here  nor 
there  in  such  a  matter,  but  so  long  as  you  under- 
stand that  my  only  desire  is  that  both  she  and  I 
should  do  what  is  most  correct  and  proper."  He 
came  closer  to  John.  "It  is  of  vital  importance 
for  me  to  preserve  my  composure,"  said  Sir 
Timothy.  "  I  am  not  fitted  for — for  any  kind  of 


PETER'S  MOTHER  73 

scene  just  now.  Will  you  undertake  for  me  the 
task  of  explaining  to — to  my  dear  wife  the  situa- 
tion in  which  I  am  placed?  " 

"I  will  do  my  best,"  said  John.  He  was 
touched  by  the  note  of  piteous  anxiety  which  had 
crept  into  the  squire's  harsh  voice. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sir  Timothy.  "Will  you 
await  her  here?  She  is  returning  immediately. 
Break  it  to  her  as  gently  as  you  can.  I  shall  rest 
and  compose  myself  by  a  talk  with  Dr.  Blundell." 

He  went  slowly  to  the  study,  leaving  John 
Crewys  alone. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"Is  that  you,  Cousin  John?"  said  Lady  Mary. 
"Is  Sir  Timothy  gone?  I  have  not  been  away 
more  than  a  few  minutes,  have  I?" 

She  spoke  quite  brightly.  Her  cheeks  were 
flushed,  and  her  blue  eyes  were  sparkling  with 
excitement. 

John  looked  at  her,  and  found  himself  wishing 
that  her  soft,  brown  hair  were  not  strained  so 
tightly  from  her  forehead,  nor  brushed  so  closely 
to  her  head;  the  fashion  would  have  been  trying 
to  a  younger  face,  and  fatal  to  features  less 
regularly  delicate  and  correct.  He  also  wished 
she  were  not  dressed  like  a  Quaker's  wife.  The 
stiff,  grey  poplin  fitted  like  a  glove  the  pretty 
curves  of  Lady  Mary's  slender  figure,  but  it 
lacked  distinction,  and  appropriateness,  to  John's 
fastidious  eye.  Then  he  reproached  himself  vehe- 
mently for  allowing  his  thoughts  to  dwell  on  such 
trifles  at  such  a  moment. 

"  Will  you  forgive  me  for  going  away  the  very 
day  you  come?"  said  Lady  Mary. 

How  quickly,  how  surprisingly,  she  recovered 
her  spirits!  She  had  looked  so  weary  and  sad  as 

74 


PETER'S  MOTHER  75 

she  came  down  the  stairs  an  hour  ago.  Now  she 
was  almost  gay.  A  feverish  and  unnatural  gaiety, 
no  doubt ;  but  those  flushed  cheeks,  and  glittering 
blue  eyes — how  they  restored  the  youthful  loveli- 
ness of  the  face  he  had  once  thought  the  most 
beautiful  he  ever  saw! 

"  I  am  going  to  see  the  last  of  my  boy.  You'll 
understand,  won't  you?  You  were  an  only  son 
too.  And  your  mother  would  have  gone  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth  to  look  upon  your  face  once 
more,  wouldn't  she?  Mothers  are  made  like 
that." 

"Some  mothers,"  said  John;  and  he  turned 
away  his  head. 

"Not  yours?  I'm  sorry,"  said  Lady  Mary, 
simply. 

"Oh,  well — you  know,  she  was  a  good  deal — 
in  the  world,"  he  said,  repenting  himself. 

"  I  use  to  wish  so  much  to  live  in  the  world 
too,"  said  Lady  Mary,  dreamily;  "but  ever  since 
I  was  fifteen  I've  lived  in  this  out-of-the-way 
place." 

"  Don't  be  too  sorry  for  that,"  said  John ; "  you 
don't  know  what  a  revelation  this  out-of-the-way 
place  may  be  to  a  tired  worker  like  me,  who  lives 
always  amid  the  unlovely  sights  and  sounds  of  a 
city." 

"Ah!  but  that's  just  it,"  she  said  quickly. 
"You  see  I'm  not  tired — yet;  and  I've  done  no 
work." 


76  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  That  is  why  it's  such  a  rest  to  look  at  you," 
said.  John,  smiling.  "  Flowers  have  their  place  in 
creation  as  vegetables  have  theirs.  But  we  only 
ask  the  flowers  to  bloom  peacefully  in  sheltered 
gardens;  we  don't  insist  on  popping  them  into 
the  soup  with  the  onions  and  carrots." 

Lady  Mary  laughed  as  though  she  had  not  a 
care  in  the  world. 

"It  is  quite  refreshing  to  find  that  a  big- wig 
like  you  can  talk  just  as  much  nonsense  as  a  little- 
wig  like  me,"  she  said;  "but  you  don't  know,  for 
all  that,  what  the  silence  and  monotony  of  life 
here  can  be.  The  very  voice  of  a  stranger  falls 
like  music  on  one's  ears.  I  was  so  glad  to  see  you, 
and  you  were  so  kind  and  sympathetic  about — 
my  boy.  And  then,  all  in  a  moment,  my  joy  was 
turned  into  mourning,  wasn't  it?  And  Peter  is 
going  to  the  war,  and  it's  all  like  a  dreadful  dream ; 
except  that  I  know  I  shall  wake  up  every  morning 
only  to  realize  more  strongly  that  it's  true." 

John  remembered  that  he  was  dallying  with 
his  mission,  instead  of  fulfilling  it. 

"Sir  Timothy  cannot  go  to  see  his  son  off? 
That  must  be  a  grief  to  him,"  he  said. 

"No;  he  isn't  coming.  He  has  business,  I 
believe,"  said  Lady  Mary,  a  little  coldly.  "There 
has  been  a  dispute  over  some  Crown  lands,  which 
march  with  ours.  Officials  are  often  very  dilatory 
and  difficult  to  deal  with.  Probably,  however, 
you  know  more  about  it  than  I  do.  I  am  going 


PETER'S  MOTHER  77 

alone.  I  have  just  been  giving  the  necessary 
orders.  I  shall  take  a  servant  with  me,  as  well 
as  my  maid,  for  I  am  such  an  inexperienced 
traveller — though  it  seems  absurd,  at  my  age — 
that  I  am  quite  frightened  of  getting  into  the 
wrong  trains.  I  dread  a  journey  by  myself.  Even 
such  a  little  journey  as  that.  But,  of  course, 
nothing  would  keep  me  at  home." 

"Only  one  thing,"  said  John,  in  a  low  voice, 
"if  I  have  judged  your  character  rightly  in  so 
short  a  time." 

"What  is  that?" 

"Duty." 

She  looked  at  him  with  sweet,  puzzled  eyes, 
like  a  child. 

"  Are  you  pleading  Sir  Timothy's  cause,  Cousin 
John?"  she  said,  with  a  little  touch  of  offence  in 
her  tone  that  was  only  charming. 

"I  am  pleading  Sir  Timothy's  cause,"  said 
John,  seriously. 

"Love  is  stronger  than  duty,  isn't  it?"  said 
Lady  Mary. 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  John,  very  simply. 

"You  mean  my  husband  doesn't  wish  me  to 
go?" 

"Don't  think  me  too  presuming,"  he  said 
pleadingly. 

"  I  couldn't,"  said  Lady  Mary,  naively.  "  You 
are  older  than  I  am,  you  know,"  she  laughed, 
"and  a  Q.C.  And  you  know  you  would  be  my 


78  PETER'S  MOTHER 

trustee  and  my  boy's  guardian  if  anything  ever 
happened  to  Sir  Timothy.  He  told  me  so  long 
ago.  And  he  reminded  me  of  it  to-day  most 
solemnly.  I  suppose  he  was  afraid  I  shouldn't 
treat  you  with  proper  respect." 

"  He  has  honoured  me  very  highly,"  said  John. 
"  In  that  case,  it  would  be  almost  my — my  duty  to 
advise  you  in  any  difficulty  that  might  arise, 
wouldn't  it?" 

"  That  means  you  want  to  advise  me  now?" 

"Frankly,  it  does." 

"  And  are  you  going  to  tell  me  that  I  ought  to 
stay  at  home,  and  let  my  only  boy  leave  England 
without  bidding  him  God-speed?"  said  Lady 
Mary  incredulously.  "  If  so,  I  warn  you  that  you 
will  never  convince  me  of  that,  argue  as  you 
may." 

"  No  one  is  ever  convinced  by  argument,"  said 
John.  "But  stern  facts  sometimes  command 
even  a  woman's  attention." 

"When  backed  by  such  powers  of  persuasion 
as  yours,  perhaps." 

She  faced  him  with  sparkling  eyes.  Lady 
Mary  was  timid  and  gentle  by  nature,  but  Peter's 
mother  knew  no  fear.  Yet  she  realized  that  if 
John  Crewys  were  moved  to  put  forth  his  full 
powers,  he  might  be  a  difficult  man  to  oppose. 
She  met  his  glance,  and  observed  that  he  per- 
fectly understood  the  spirit  which  animated  her, 
and  that  it  was  not  opposition  that  shone  from 


PETER'S  MOTHER  79 

his  bright  hazel  eyes,  as  he  regarded  her  steadily 
through  his  pince-nez. 

"  I  am  going  to  deal  with  a  hard  fact,  which 
your  husband  is  afraid  to  tell  you,"  said  John, 
"because,  in  his  tenderness  for  your  womanly 
weakness,  he  underrates,  as  I  venture  to  think, 
your  womanly  courage.  Sir  Timothy  wants  you 
to  be  with  him  here  to-morrow  because  he  has  to — 
to  fight  an  unequal  battle " 

"With  the  Crown?" 

"With  Death." 

"  What  do  you  mean? "  said  Lady  Mary. 

"  He  has  been  silently  combating  a  mortal  dis- 
ease for  many  months  past,"  said  John,  "and  to- 
morrow morning  the  issue  is  to  be  decided.  Every 
day,  every  hour  of  delay,  increases  the  danger. 
The  great  surgeon,  Dr.  Herslett,  will  be  here  at 
eleven  o'clock,  and  on  the  success  of  the  operation 
he  will  perform,  hangs  the  thread  of  your  hus- 
band's life." 

Lady  Mary  put  up  a  little  trembling  hand  en- 
treatingly,  and  John's  great  heart  throbbed  with 
pity.  He  had  chosen  his  words  deliberately  to 
startle  her  from  her  absorption  in  her  son;  but 
she  looked  so  fragile,  so  white,  so  imploring,  that 
his  courage  almost  failed  him.  He  came  to  her 
side,  and  took  the  little  hand  reassuringly  in  his 
strong,  warm  clasp. 

"Be  brave,  my  dear,"  he  said,  with  faltering 
voice,  "and  put  aside,  if  you  can,  the  thought  of 


80  PETER'S  MOTHER 

your  bitter,  terrible  disappointment.  Only  you 
can  cheer,  and  inspire,  and  aid  your  husband  to 
maintain  the  calmness  of  spirit  which  is  of  such 
vital  importance  to  his  chance  of  recovery.  You 
can't  leave  him  against  his  wish  at  such  a  moment ; 
not  if  you  are  the — the  angel  I  believe  you  to  be," 
said  John,  with  emotion. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  though  he  looked  away 
from  her,  he  knew  that  she  was  crying. 

John  released  the  little  hand  gently,  and 
walked  to  the  fireplace  to  give  her  time  to  recover 
herself.  Perhaps  his  eye-glasses  were  dimmed; 
he  polished  them  very  carefully. 

Lady  Mary  dashed  away  her  tears,  and  spoke 
in  a  hard  voice  he  scarcely  recognized  as  hers. 

"I  might  be  all — you  think  me,  John,"  she 
said,  "if- 

"  Ah!  don't  let  there  be  an  if,"  said  John. 

"But " 

11  Or  a  but." 

"It  is  that  you  don't  understand  the  situa- 
tion," she  said;  "you  talk  as  though  Sir  Timothy 
and  I  were  an  ordinary  husband  and  wife,  en- 
tirely dependent  on  one  another's  love  and 
sympathy.  Don't  you  know  he  stands  alone — 
above  all  the  human  follies  and  weaknesses  of  a 
mere  woman  ?  Can't  you  guess, ' '  said  Lady  Mary, 
passionately,  "that  it's  my  boy,  my  poor  faulty, 
undutiful  boy — oh,  that  I  should  call  him  so!— 
who  needs  me?  that  it's  his  voice  that  would  be 


PETER'S  MOTHER  81 

calling  in  my  heart  whilst  I  awaited  Sir  Timothy's 
pleasure  to-morrow?" 

"His  pleasure?"  said  John,  sternly. 

"I  am  shocking  you,  and  I  didn't  want  to 
shock  you,"  she  cried,  almost  wildly.  "But  you 
don't  suppose  he  needs  me — me  myself?  He  only 
wants  to  be  sure  I'm  doing  the  right  thing.  He 
wants  to  give  people  no  chance  of  saying  that 
Lady  Mary  Crewys  rushed  off  to  see  her  spoilt  boy 
whilst  her  husband  hovered  between  life  and 
death.  A  lay  figure  would  do  just  as  well;  if  it 
would  only  sit  in  an  armchair  and  hold  its  hand- 
kerchief to  its  eyes ;  and  if  the  neighbours,  and  his 
sisters,  and  the  servants  could  be  persuaded  to 
think  it  was  I." 

"Hush,  hush!"  said  John. 

"  Do  let  me  speak  out ;  pray  let  me  speak  out," 
she  said,  breathless  and  imploring,  "  and  you  can 
think  what  you  like  of  me  afterwards,  when  I  am 
gone,  if  only  you  won't  scold  now.  I  am  so  sick  of 
being  scolded,"  said  Lady  Mary.  "Am  I  to  be  a 
child  for  ever — I,  that  am  so  old,  and  have  lost 
my  boy?" 

He  thought  there  was  something  in  her  of  the 
child  that  never  grows  up;  the  guilelessness,  the 
charm,  the  ready  tears  and  smiles,  the  quick 
changes  of  mood. 

He  rolled  an  elbow-chair  forward,  and  put  her 
into  it  tenderly. 

"Say  what  you  will,"  said  John. 

6 


82  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"This  is  comfortable,"  she  said,  leaning  her 
head  wearily  on  her  hand ;  "to  talk  to  a — a  friend 
who  understands,  and  who  will  not  scold.  But 
you  can't  understand  unless  I  tell  you  everything ; 
and  Timothy  himself,  after  all,  would  be  the  first 
to  explain  to  you  that  it  isn't  my  tears  nor  my 
kisses,  nor  my  consolation  he  wants.  You  didn't 
think  so  really,  did  you?" 

John  hesitated,  remembering  Sir  Timothy's 
words,  but  she  did  not  wait  for  an  answer. 

"Yes,"  she  said  calmly,  "he  wishes  me  to  be 
in  my  proper  place.  It  would  be  a  scandal  if  I 
did  such  a  remarkable  thing  as  to  leave  home  on 
any  pretext  at  such  a  moment.  Only  by  being 
extraordinarily  respectable  and  dignified  can  we 
live  down  the  memory  of  his  father's  uncon- 
ventional behaviour.  I  must  remember  my  posi- 
tion. I  must  smell  my  salts,  and  put  my  feet 
up  on  the  sofa,  and  be  moderately  overcome  dur- 
ing the  crisis,  and  moderately  thankful  to  the 
Almighty  when  it's  over,  so  that  every  one  may 
hear  how  admirably  dear  Lady  Mary  behaved. 
And  when  I  am  reading  the  Times  to  him 
during  his  convalescence,"  she  cried,  wringing 
her  hands,  "Peter  —  Peter  will  be  thousands 
of  miles  away,  marching  over  the  veldt  to  his 
death." 

"You  make  very  sure  of  Peter's  death,"  said 
John,  quietly. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Lady  Mary,  listlessly.     "He's 


PETER'S  MOTHER  83 

an  only  son.  It's  always  the  only  sons  who  die. 
I've  remarked  that." 

"You  make  very  sure  of  Sir  Timothy's  re- 
covery." 

"Oh  yes,"  Lady  Mary  said  again.  "He's  a 
very  strong  man." 

Something  ominous  in  John's  face  and  voice 
attracted  her  attention. 

"Why  do  you  look  like  that?" 

"Because,"  said  John,  slowly — "you  under- 
stand I'm  treating  you  as  a  woman  of  courage — 
Dr.  Blundell  told  me  just  now  that — the  odds  are 
against  him." 

She  uttered  a  little  cry. 

The  doctor's  voice  at  the  end  of  the  hall  made 
them  both  start. 

"Lady  Mary,"  he  said,  "you  will  forgive  my 
interruption.  Sir  Timothy  desired  me  to  join  you. 
He  feared  this  double  blow  might  prove  too  much 
for  your  strength." 

"  I  am  quite  strong,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"He  wished  me  to  deliver  a  message,"  said 
the  doctor. 

"Yes." 

"On  reflection,  Sir  Timothy  believes  that  he 
may  be  partly  influenced  by  a  selfish  desire  for  the 
consolation  of  your  presence  in  wishing  you  to 
remain  with  him  to-morrow.  He  was  struck,  I 
believe,  with  something  Mr.  Crewys  said — on  this 
point." 


84  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"God  bless  you,  John!"  said  Lady  Mary. 

" Hush!"  said  John,  shaking  his  head. 

Dr.  Blundell's  voice  sounded,  John  thought,  as 
though  he  were  putting  force  upon  himself  to 
speak  calmly  and  steadily.  His  eyes  were  bent 
on  the  floor,  and  he  never  once  looked  at  Lady 
Mary. 

"Sir  Timothy  desires,  consequently,"  he  said, 
"that  you  will  consider  yourself  free  to  follow 
your  own  wishes  in  the  matter;  being  guided,  as 
far  as  possible,  by  the  advice  of  Mr.  Crewys.  He 
is  afraid  of  further  agitation,  and  therefore  asks 
you  to  convey  to  him,  as  quickly  as  possible,  your 
final  decision.  As  his  physician,  may  I  beg  you 
not  to  keep  him  waiting?" 

He  left  them,  and  returned  to  the  study. 

Though  it  was  only  a  short  silence  that  fol- 
lowed his  departure,  John  had  time  to  learn  by 
heart  the  aspect  of  the  half-lighted,  shadowy 
hall. 

There  are  some  pauses  which  are  illustrated  to 
the  day  of  a  man's  death,  by  a  vivid  impression 
on  his  memory  of  the  surroundings. 

The  heavy,  painted  beams  crossing  and  re- 
crossing  the  lofty  roof;  the  black  staircase 
lighted  with  wax  candles,  that  made  a  brilliancy 
which  threw  into  deeper  relief  the  darkness  of 
every  recess  and  corner;  the  full-length,  Early 
Victorian  portraits  of  men  and  women  of  his  own 
race — inartistic  daubs,  that  were  yet  horribly 


PETER'S  MOTHER  85 

lifelike  in  the  semi-illumination;  the  uncurtained 
mullioned  windows, — all  formed  a  background  for 
the  central  figure  in  his  thoughts;  the  slender 
womanly  form  in  the  armchair;  the  little  brown 
head  supported  on  the  white  hand;  the  delicate 
face,  robbed  of  its  youthful  freshness,  and  yet  so 
lovely  still. 

"John,"  said  Lady  Mary,  in  a  voice  from 
which  all  passion  and  strength  had  died  away, 
"  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do." 

"Remain  with  your  husband." 

"  And  let  my  boy  go  ? "  said  Lady  Mary,  weep- 
ing. "  I  had  thought,  when  he  was  leaving  me, 
perhaps  for  ever,  that — that  his  heart  would  be 
touched — that  I  should  get  a  glimpse  once  more 
of  the  Peter  he  used  to  be.  Oh,  can't  you  under- 
stand? He — he's  a  little — hard  and  cold  to  me 
sometimes — God  forgive  me  for  saying  so! — but 
you — you've  been  a  young  man  too." 

"Yes,"  John  said,  rather  sadly,  "I've  been 
young  too." 

"  It's  only  his  age,  you  know,"  she  said.  "  He 
couldn't  always  be  as  gentle  and  loving  as  when 
he  was  a  child.  A  young  man  would  think  that 
so  babyish.  He  wants,  as  he  says,  to  be  inde- 
pendent, and  not  tied  to  a  woman's  apron-string. 
But  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  loves  me  best  in  the 
whole  world,  and  he  wouldn't  have  been  ashamed 
to  let  me  see  it  at  such  a  moment.  And  I  should 
have  had  a  precious  memory  of  him  for  ever.  You 


86  PETER'S  MOTHER 

shake  your  head.  Don't  you  understand  me?  I 
thought  you  seemed  to  understand,"  she  said 
wistfully. 

"Peter  is  a  boy,"  said  John,  "and  life  is  just 
opening  for  him.  It  is  a  hard  saying  to  you,  but 
his  thoughts  are  full  of  the  world  he  is  entering. 
There  is  no  room  in  them  just  now  for  the  home 
he  is  leaving.  That  is  human  nature.  If  he  be 
sick  or  sorry  later  on — as  I  know  your  loving  fancy 
pictures  him — his  heart  would  turn  even  then,  not 
to  the  mother  he  saw  waving  and  weeping  on  the 
quay,  amid  all  the  confusion  of  departure,  but 
to  the  mother  of  his  childhood,  of  his  happy  days 
of  long  ago.  It  may  be  " — John  hesitated,  and 
spoke  very  tenderly — "it  may  be  that  his  heart 
will  be  all  the  softer  then,  because  he  was  denied 
the  parting  interview  he  never  sought.  The 
young  are  strangely  wayward  and  impatient. 
They  regret  what  might  have  been.  They  do  not, 
like  the  old,  dwell  fondly  upon  what  the  gods 
actually  granted  them.  It  is  you  who  will  suffer 
from  this  sacrifice,  not  Peter;  that  will  be  some 
consolation  to  you,  I  suppose,  even  if  it  be  also  a 
disappointment. " 

"Ah,  how  you  understand!"  said  Peter's 
mother,  sadly. 

"Perhaps  because,  as  you  said  just  now,  I 
have  been  a  young  man  too,"  he  said,  forcing  a 
smile.  "Oh,  forgive  me,  but  let  me  save  you; 
for  I  believe  that  if  you  deserted  your  husband 


PETER'S  MOTHER  87 

to-day,  you  would  sorrow  for  it  to  the  end  of  your 
life." 

"And  Peter — "  she  murmured. 

He  came  to  her  side,  and  straightened  him- 
self, and  spoke  hopefully. 

"  Give  me  your  last  words  and  your  last  gifts 
— and  a  letter — for  Peter,  and  send  me  in  your 
stead  to-night.  I  will  deliver  them  faithfully.  I 
will  tell  him — for  he  should  be  told — of  the  sore 
straits  in  which  you  find  yourself.  Set  him  this 
noble  example  of  duty,  and  believe  me,  it  will 
touch  his  heart  more  nearly  than  even  that  sacred 
parting  which  you  desire." 

Lady  Mary  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"Tell  Sir  Timothy  that  I  will  stay,"  she 
whispered. 

John  bent  down  and  kissed  the  little  hand  in 
silence,  and  with  profound  respect. 

Then  he  went  to  the  study  without  looking 
back. 

When  he  was  gone,  Lady  Mary  laid  her  face 
upon  the  badly  painted  miniature  of  Peter,  and 
cried  as  one  who  had  lost  all  hope  in  life. 


CHAPTER  VII 

"HER  didn't  make  much  account  on  him  while 
him  were  alive ;  but  now  'ee  be  dead,  'tis  butivul 
tu  zee  how  her  du  take  on,"  said  Happy  Jack. 

There  was  a  soft  mist  of  heat;  the  long-de- 
layed spring  coming  suddenly,  after  storms  of 
cold  rain  and  gales  of  wind  had  swept  the  Youle 
valley.  Two  days'  powerful  sunshine  had  ex- 
cited the  buds  to  breaking,  and  drawn  up  the  ten- 
der blades  of  young  grass  from  the  soaked  earth. 

The  flowering  laurels  hung  over  the  shady 
banks,  whereon  large  families  of  primroses  spent 
their  brief  and  lovely  existence  undisturbed.  The 
hawthorn  put  forth  delicate  green  leaves,  and  the 
white  buds  of  the  cherry-trees  in  the  orchard  were 
swelling  on  their  leafless  boughs. 

In  such  summer  warmth,  and  with  the  concert 
of  building  birds  above  and  around,  it  was  strange 
to  see  the  dead  and  wintry  aspect  of  the  forest 
trees;  still  bare  and  brown,  though  thickening 
with  the  red  promise  of  foliage  against  the  April 
sky. 

John  Crewys,  climbing  the  lane  next  the  water- 
fall, had  been  hailed  by  the  roadside  by  the  tooth- 
less, smiling  old  rustic. 

88 


PETER'S  MOTHER  89 

"I  be  downright  glad  to  zee  'ee  come  back, 
zur ;  ay,  that  'a  be.  What  vur  du  'ee  go  gadding 
London  ways,  zays  I,  when  there  be  zuch  a  turble 
lot  to  zee  arter?  and  the  ladyship  oop  Barracombe 
ways,  her  bain't  vit  var  tu  du  't,  as  arl  on  us  du 
know.  'Tis  butivul  tu  zee  how  her  takes  on,"  he 
repeated  admiringly. 

John  glanced  uneasily  at  his  companion,  who 
stood  with  downcast  eyes. 

"Lard,  I  doan't  take  no  account  on  Miss 
Zairy,"  said  the  road-mender,  leaning  on  his  hoe 
and  looking  sharply  from  the  youthful  lady  to  the 
middle-aged  gentleman.  "  I've  knowed  her  zince 
her  wur  a  little  maid.  I  used  tu  give  her  lolly-pops. 
Yu  speak  up,  Miss  Zairy,  and  tell  'un  if  I  didn't." 

"  To  be  sure  you  did,  Father  Jack,"  said  Sarah, 
promptly. 

"Ah,  zo  'a  did,"  said  the  old  man,  chuckling. 
"Zo  'a  did,  and  her  ladyship  avore  yu.  I  mind 
her  when  her  was  a  little  maid,  and  pretty  ways  her 
had  wi'  her,  zame  as  now.  None  zo  ramshacklin' 
as  yu  du  be,  Miss  Zairy." 

"There's  nobody  about  that  he  doesn't  remem- 
ber as  a  child,"  said  Sarah,  apologetically.  "  He's 
so  old,  you  see.  He  doesn't  remember  how  old 
he  is,  and  nobody  can  tell  him.  But  he  knows  he 
was  born  in  the  reign  of  George  the  Third,  because 
his  mother  told  him  so;  and  he  remembers  his 
father  coming  in  with  news  of  the  Battle  of  Water- 
loo. So  I  think  he  must  be  about  ninety." 


90  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"Lard,  mar  like  a  hunderd  year  old,  I  be," 
said  Happy  Jack,  offended.  "  And  hike  how  I  du 
wark  yit.  Yif  I'd  'a  give  up  my  wark,  I  shude  'a 
bin  in  the  churchyard  along  o'  the  idlers,  that  'a 
shude."  He  chuckled  and  winked.  "I  du  be  a 
turble  vunny  man,"  quavered  the  thin  falsetto 
voice.  "  They  be  niver  a  dune  a  laughin'  along  o' 
my  jokes.  An'  I  du  remember  Zur  Timothy's 
vather  zo  well  as  Zur  Timothy  hisself ,  though  'ee 
bin  dead  nigh  sixty  year.  Lard,  'ee  was  a  bad 
'un,  was  y'  ould  squire.  An  old  devil.  That's 
what  'ee  was." 

"He  only  means  Sir  Timothy's  father  had  a 
bad  temper, ' '  explained  Sarah.  "  It's  quite  true. ' ' 

"Ah,  was  it  timper?"  said  Jack,  sarcastically. 
"  I  cude  tell  'ee  zum  tales  on  'un.  There  were  a 
right  o'  way,  zur,  acrust  the  mead  thereby,  as  the 
volk  did  claim.  And  'a  zays,  'A'll  putt  a  stop 
tu  'un,'  'a  zays.  And  him  zat  on  a  style,  long 
zide  the  tharn  bush,  and  'a  took  'ee's  gun,  and  'a 
zays,  'A'll  shute  vust  man  are  maid  as  cumes 
acrust  thiccy  vield,'  'a  zays.  And  us  knowed  'un 
wude  du  't  tu.  And  'un  barred  the  gate,  and 
there  t'was." 

He  laughed  till  the  tears  ran  down  his  face, 
brown  as  gingerbread,  and  wrinkled  as  a  monkey's. 

"Mr.  Crewys  is  in  a  hurry,  Jack,"  said  Sarah. 
"He's  only  just  arrived  from  London,  and  he's 
walked  all  the  way  from  Brawnton." 

"  'Tain't  but  a  stip  vur  a  vine  vellar  like  'ee, 


PETER'S  MOTHER  91 

and  wi'  a  vine  maiden  like  yu  du  be  grown,  var 
tu  kip  'ee  company,"  said  Happy  Jack.  "But 
'ee'll  be  in  a  yurry  tu  git  tu  Barracombe,  and  re- 
fresh hisself,  in  arl  this  turble  yeat.  When  the 
zun  du  search,  the  rain  du  voller." 

"  I  dare  say  you  want  a  glass  of  beer  yourself," 
said  John,  producing  a  coin  from  his  pocket. 

"  No,  zur,  I  doan't,"  said  the  road  -mender,  un- 
expectedly. "  Beer  doan't  agree  wi'  my  inzide,  an' 
it  gits  into  my  yead,  and  makes  me  proper  jolly, 
zo  the  young  volk  make  game  on  me.  But  I  cude 
du  wi'  a  drop  o'  zider  zur ;  and  drink  your  health 
and  the  young  lady's,  zur,  zo  'a  cude." 

He  winked  and  nodded  as  he  pocketed  the  coin ; 
and  John,  half  laughing  and  half  vexed,  pursued 
his  road  with  Sarah. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  the  old  gentleman  has 
become  a  trifle  free  and  easy  with  advancing 
years,"  he  observed. 

"  He  thinks  he  has  a  right  to  be  interested  in 
the  family,"  said  Sarah,  "because  of  the  connec- 
tion, you  see." 

"The  connection?" 

"Didn't  you  know?"  she  asked,  with  wide- 
open  eyes.  "Though  you  were  Sir  Timothy's 
own  cousin." 

"A  very  distant  cousin,"  said  John. 

"But  every  one  in  the  valley  knows,"  said 
Sarah,  "  that  Sir  Timothy's  father  married  his  own 
cook,  who  was  Happy  Jack's  first  cousin.  When 


92  PETER'S  MOTHER 

I  was  a  little  girl,  and  wanted  to  tease  Peter,"  she 
added  ingenuously,  "  I  always  used  to  allude  to 
it.  It  is  the  skeleton  in  their  cupboard.  We 
haven't  got  a  skeleton  in  our  family,"  she  added 
regretfully;  "least  of  all  the  skeleton  of  a  cook." 

John  remembered  vaguely  that  there  was  a 
story  about  the  second  marriage  of  Sir  Timothy 
the  elder. 

"So  she  was  a  cook!"  he  said.  "Well,  what 
harm?"  and  he  laughed  in  spite  of  himself.  "I 
wonder  why  there  is  something  so  essentially  un- 
romantic  in  the  profession  of  a  cook? " 

"  Her  family  went  to  Australia,  and  they  are 
quite  rich  people  now:  no  more  cooks  than  you 
and  me,"  said  Sarah,  gravely.  "  But  Happy  Jack 
won't  leave  Youlestone,  though  he  says  they 
tempted  him  with  untold  gold.  And  he  wouldn't 
touch  his  hat  to  Sir  Timothy,  because  he  was  his 
cousin.  That  was  another  skeleton." 

"But  a  very  small  one,"  said  John,  laughing. 

"It  might  seem  small  to  us,  but  I'm  sure  it 
was  one  reason  why  Sir  Timothy  never  went  out- 
side his  own  gates  if  he  could  help  it,"  said  Sarah, 
shrewdly.  "  Luckily  the  cook  died  when  he  was 
born." 

"Why  luckily,  poor  thing?"  said  John,  indig- 
nantly. 

"  She  wouldn't  have  had  much  of  a  time,  would 
she,  do  you  think,  with  Sir  Timothy's  sisters?" 
asked  Sarah,  with  simplicity.  "  They  were  in  the 


PETER'S  MOTHER  93 

schoolroom  when  their  papa  married  her,  or  I  am 
sure  they  would  never  have  allowed  it.  Their 
own  mother  was  a  most  select  person ;  and  little 
thought  when  she  gave  the  orders  for  dinner,  and 
all  that,  who  the  old  gentleman's  next  wife  would 
be,"  said  Sarah,  giggling.  "They  always  talk  of 
her  as  the  Honourable  Rachel,  since  Lady  Crewys, 
you  know,  might  just  as  well  mean  the  cook.  I 
suppose  the  old  squire  got  tired  of  her  being  so 
select,  and  thought  he  would  like  a  change.  He 
was  a  character,  you  know.  I  often  think  Peter 
will  be  a  character  when  he  grows  old.  He  is  so 
disagreeable  at  times." 

"  I  thought  you  were  so  fond  of  Peter?"  said 
John,  looking  amusedly  down  on  the  little  chatter- 
box beside  him. 

"  Not  exactly  fond  of  him.  It's  just  that  I'm 
used  to  him,"  said  Sarah,  colouring  all  over  her 
clear,  fresh  face,  even  to  the  little  tendrils  of  red 
hair  on  her  white  neck. 

She  wore  a  blue  cotton  frock,  and  a  brown 
•nushroom  hat,  with  a  wreath  of  wild  roses  which 
iad  somewhat  too  obviously  been  sewn  on  in  a 
hurry  and  crookedly;  and  she  looked  far  more 
like  a  village  schoolgirl  than  a  young  lady  who 
was  shortly  to  make  her  dtbut  in  London  society. 
But  he  was  struck  with  the  extraordinary  brill- 
iancy of  her  complexion,  transparent  and  pure 
as  it  was,  in  the  searching  sunlight. 

"  If  she  were  not  so  round-shouldered — if  the 


94  PETER'S  MOTHER 

features  were  better — her  expression  softer,"  said 
John  to  himself — "if  divine  colouring  were  all — 
she  would  be  beautiful." 

But  her  wide,  smiling  mouth,  short-tipped 
nose,  and  cleft  chin,  conveyed  rather  the  impres- 
sion of  childish  audacity  than  of  feminine  charm. 
The  glance  of  those  bright,  inquisitive  eyes  was 
like  a  wild  robin's,  half  innocent,  half  bold. 
Though  her  round  throat  were  white  as  milk,  and 
though  no  careless  exposure  to  sun  and  wind  had 
yet  succeeded  in  dimming  the  exquisite  fairness  of 
her  skin,  yet  the  defects  and  omissions  incidental 
to  extreme  youth,  country  breeding,  and  lack  of 
discipline,  rendered  Miss  Sarah  not  wholly  pleas- 
ing in  John's  fastidious  eyes.  Her  carriage  was 
slovenly,  her  ungloved  hands  were  red,  her  hair 
touzled,  and  her  deep-toned  voice  over-loud  and 
confident.  Yet  her  frankness  and  her  trustfulness 
could  not  fail  to  evoke  sympathy. 

"  It  is — Lady  Mary  that  I  am  fond  of,"  said  the 
girl,  with  a  yet  more  vivid  blush. 

He  was  touched.  "She  will  miss  you,  I  am 
sure,  when  you  go  to  town,"  he  said  kindly. 

"  If  I  thought  so  really,  I  wouldn't  go,"  said 
Sarah,  vehemently.  She  winked  a  tear  from  her 
long  eyelashes.  "  But  I  know  it's  only  your  good 
nature.  She  thinks  of  nothing  and  nobody  but 
Peter.  And — and,  after  all,  when  I  get  better 
manners,  and  all  that,  I  shall  be  more  of  a  com- 
panion to  her.  I'm  very  glad  to  go,  if  it  wasn't 


PETER'S  MOTHER  95 

for  leaving  her.  I  like  Aunt  Elizabeth,  whereas 
mamma  and  I  never  did  get  on.  She  cares  most 
for  the  boys,  which  is  very  natural,  no  doubt, 
as  I  was  only  an  afterthought,  and  nobody 
wanted  me.  And  Aunt  Elizabeth  has  always 
liked  me.  She  says  I  amuse  her  with  my  sharp 
tongue." 

"  But  you  will  have  to  be  a  little  careful  of  the 
sharp  tongue  when  you  get  to  London,"  said  John, 
smiling.  He  was  struck  by  the  half -sly,  half- 
acquiescent  look  that  Sarah  stole  at  him  from 
beneath  those  long  eyelashes.  Perhaps  her  out- 
spokenness was  not  so  involuntary  as  he  had 
imagined. 

"If  I  had  known  you  were  coming  to-day,  I 
would  have  gone  up  to  say  good-bye  to  Lady 
Mary  last  night,"  said  Sarah,  mournfully.  "She 
won't  want  me  now  you  are  here." 

"I  have  a  thousand  and  one  things  to  look 
after.  I  sha'n't  be  in  your  way,"  said  John,  good- 
naturedly,  "if  she  is  not  busy  otherwise." 

"  Busy ! "  echoed  Sarah.  "  She  sits  so,  with  her 
hands  in  her  lap,  looking  over  the  valley.  And 
she  has  grown,  oh,  so  much  thinner  and  sadder- 
looking.  I  thought  you  would  never  come." 

"  I  have  my  own  work,"  said  John,  hurriedly, 
"and  I  thought,  besides,  she  would  rather  be 
alone  these  first  few  weeks." 

Sarah  looked  up  with  a  flash  in  her  blue  eyes, 
which  were  so  dark,  and  large-pupilled,  and 


96  PETER'S  MOTHER 

heavily  lashed,  that  they  looked  almost  black. 
She  ground  her  strong  white  teeth  together. 

"If  I  were  Lady  Mary,"  she  said,  "I  would 
have  slammed  the  old  front  door  behind  me  the 
very  day  after  Sir  Timothy  was  buried — and  gone 
away;  I  would.  There  she  is,  like  a  prisoner, 
with  the  old  ladies  counting  every  tear  she  sheds, 
and  adding  them  up  to  see  if  it  is  enough;  and 
measuring  every  inch  of  crape  on  her  gowns ;  and 
finding  fault  with  all  she  does,  just  as  they  used 
when  Sir  Timothy  was  alive  to  back  them  up. 
And  she  is  afraid  to  do  anything  he  didn't  like; 
and  she  never  listens  to  the  doctor,  the  only  person 
in  the  world  who's  ever  had  the  courage  to  fight 
her  battles." 

"The  doctor,"  said  John,  sharply.  "Has  she 
been  ill?" 

"No,  no." 

"What  has  he  to  do  with  Lady  Mary?"  said 
John. 

His  displeasure  was  so  great  that  the  colour 
rose  in  his  clean-shaven  face,  and  did  not  escape 
little  Sarah's  observation,  for  all  her  downcast 
lashes. 

"Somebody  must  go  and  see  her,"  said  Sarah; 
"and  you  were  away.  And  the  canon  is  just 
nobody,  always  bothering  her  for  subscriptions; 
though  he  is  very  fond  of  her,  like  everybody  else," 
she  added,  with  compunction.  "Dear  me,  Mr. 
Crewys,  how  fast  you  are  walking!" 


PETER'S  MOTHER  97 

John  had  unconsciously  quickened  his  pace  so 
much  that  she  had  some  ado  to  keep  up  with  him 
without  actually  running. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said. 

"It  is  so  hot,  and  the  hill  is  steep,  and  I  am 
rather  fat.  I  dare  say  I  shall  fine  down  as  I  get 
older,"  said  Sarah,  apologetically.  "It  would  be 
dreadful  if  I  grew  up  like  mamma.  But  I  am 
more  like  my  father,  thank  goodness,  and  he  is 
simply  a  mass  of  hard  muscle.  I  dare  say  even  I 
could  beat  you  on  the  flat.  But  not  up  this  drive. 
Doesn't  it  look  pretty  in  the  spring?" 

"It  was  very  different  when  I  left  Barra- 
combe,"  said  John. 

He  looked  round  with  all  a  Londoner's  appre- 
ciation. 

In  the  sunny  corner  next  the  ivy-clad  lodge 
an  early  rhododendron  had  burst  into  scarlet 
bloom.  The  steep  drive  was  warmly  walled  and 
sheltered  on  the  side  next  the  hill  by  horse- 
chestnuts,  witch-elms,  tall,  flowering  shrubs  and 
evergreens,  and  a  variety  of  tree-azaleas  and 
rhododendrons  which  promised  a  blaze  of  beauty 
later  in  the  season. 

But  the  other  side  of  the  drive  lay  in  full 
view  of  the  open  landscape;  rolling  grass  slopes 
stretching  down  to  the  orchards  and  the  valley. 
Violets,  white  and  blue,  scented  the  air,  and 
the  primroses  clustered  at  the  roots  of  the  forest 
trees. 


98  PETER'S  MOTHER 

The  gnarled  and  twisted  stems  of  giant  creep- 
ers testified  to  the  age  of  Barracombe  House. 
Before  the  entrance  was  a  level  space,  which  made 
a  little  spring  garden,  more  formal  and  less  varied 
in  its  arrangement  than  the  terrace  gardens  on 
the  south  front ;  but  no  less  gay  and  bright,  with 
beds  of  hyacinths,  red  and  white  and  purple,  and 
daffodils  springing  amidst  their  bodyguards  of 
pale,  pointed  spears. 

A  wild  cherry-tree  at  the  corner  of  the  house 
had  showered  snowy  petals  before  the  latticed 
window  of  the  study;  the  window  whence  Sir 
Timothy  had  taken  his  last  look  at  the  western 
sky,  and  from  which  his  watchful  gaze  had  once 
commanded  the  approach  to  his  house,  and  ob- 
served almost  every  human  being  who  ventured 
up  the  drive. 

On  the  ridge  of  the  hill  above,  and  in  clumps 
upon  the  fertile  slopes  of  the  side  of  the  little  valley, 
the  young  larches  rose,  newly  clothed  in  that  light 
and  brilliant  foliage  which  darkens  almost  before 
spring  gives  place  to  summer. 

They  found  Lady  Mary  in  the  drawing-room ; 
the  sunshine  streamed  towards  her  through  the 
golden  rain  of  a  planta- genista,  which  stood  on  a 
table  in  the  western  corner  of  the  bow  window. 
She  was  looking  out  over  the  south  terrace,  and 
the  valley  and  the  river,  just  as  Sarah  had  said. 

He  was  shocked  at  her  pallor,  which  was  ac- 


PETER'S  MOTHER  99 

centuated  by  her  black  dress;  her  sapphire  blue 
eyes  looked  unnaturally  large  and  clear ;  the  little 
white  hands  clasped  in  her  lap  were  too  slender; 
a  few  silver  threads  glistened  in  the  soft,  brown 
hair.  Above  all,  the  hopeless  expression  of  the 
sad  and  gentle  face  went  to  John's  heart. 

Was  the  doctor  the  only  man  in  the  world  who 
had  the  courage  to  fight  her  battles  for  this  fading, 
grieving  woman  who  had  been  the  lovely  Mary 
Setoun;  whom  John  remembered  so  careless,  so 
laughing,  so  innocently  gay? 

He  was  relieved  that  she  could  smile  as  he  ap- 
proached to  greet  her. 

"  I  did  not  guess  you  would  come  by  the  early 
train,"  she  said,  in  glad  tones.  "But,  oh — you 
must  have  walked  all  the  way  from  Brawnton! 
What  will  James  Coachman  say?" 

"I  wanted  a  walk,"  said  John,  "and  I  knew 
you  would  send  to  meet  me  if  I  let  you  know.  My 
luggage  is  at  the  station.  James  Coachman,  as 
you  call  him,  can  fetch  that  whenever  he  will." 

"And  I  have  come  to  say  good-bye,"  said 
Sarah,  forlornly. 

She  watched  with  jealous  eyes  their  greeting, 
and  Lady  Mary's  obvious  pleasure  in  John's  ar- 
rival, and  half-oblivion  of  her  own  familiar  little 
presence. 

When  Peter  had  first  gone  to  school,  his  mother 
in  her  loneliness  had  almost  made  a  confidante 
of  little  Sarah,  the  odd,  intelligent  child  who 


100  PETER'S  MOTHER 

followed  her  about  so  faithfully,  and  listened  so 
eagerly  to  those  dreamy,  half-uttered  confidences. 
She  knew  that  Lady  Mary  wept  because  her  boy 
had  left  her;  but  she  understood  also  that  when 
Peter  came  home  for  the  holidays  he  brought  little 
joy  to  his  mother.  A  self-possessed  stripling  now 
walked  about  the  old  house,  and  laid  down  the 
law  to  his  mamma — instead  of  that  chubby 
creature  in  petticoats  who  had  once  been  Peter. 

Lady  Mary  had  dwelt  on  the  far-off  days  of 
Peter's  babyhood  very  tenderly  when  she  was 
alone  with  little  Sarah,  who  sat  and  nursed  her 
doll,  and  liked  very  much  to  listen ;  she  often  felt 
awed,  as  though  some  one  had  died;  but  she  did 
not  connect  the  story  much  with  the  Peter  of 
every  day,  who  went  fishing  and  said  girls  were 
rather  a  nuisance. 

Sarah,  too,  had  had  her  troubles.  She  was 
periodically  banished  to  distant  schools  by  a 
mother  who  disliked  romping  and  hoydenish  little 
girls,  as  much  as  she  doted  on  fat  and  wheezing 
lap-dogs.  But  as  her  father,  on  the  other  hand, 
resented  her  banishment  from  home  almost  as 
sincerely  as  Sarah  herself,  she  was  also  periodi- 
cally sent  for  to  take  up  her  residence  once  more 
beneath  the  parental  roof.  Thus  her  life  was  full 
of  change  and  uncertainty ;  but,  through  it  all,  her 
devotion  to  Lady  Mary  never  wavered. 

She  looked  at  her  now  with  a  melancholy  air 
which  sat  oddly  upon  her  bright,  comical  face,  and 


PETER'S  MOTHER  101 

which  was  intended  to  draw  attention  to  the 
pathetic  fact  of  her  own  impending  departure. 

"  I  only  came  to  say  good-bye,"  said  Sarah,  in 
slightly  injured  tones. 

"  Ah!  by-the-by,  and  I  have  promised  not  to  in- 
trude on  the  parting,"  said  John,  with  twinkling 
eyes. 

"It  is  not  an  eternal  farewell,"  said  Lady 
Mary,  drawing  Sarah  kindly  towards  her. 

"It  may  be  for  years"  said  Sarah,  rather 
offended.  "My  aunt  Elizabeth  is  as  good  as 
adopting  me.  Mamma  said  I  was  very  lucky,  and 
I  believe  she  is  glad  to  be  rid  of  me.  But  papa 
says  he  shall  come  and  see  me  in  London.  Aunt 
Elizabeth  is  going  to  take  me  to  Paris  and  to 
Scotland,  and  abroad  every  winter." 

"Oh,  Sarah,  how  you  will  be  changed  when 
you  come  back!"  said  Lady  Mary;  and  she 
laughed  a  little,  with  a  hand  on  Sarah's  shoulder ; 
but  Sarah  knew  that  Lady  Mary  was  not  thinking 
very  much  about  her,  all  the  same. 

"There  is  no  fresh  news,  John?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing  since  my  last  telegram,"  he  an- 
swered. "But  I  have  arranged  with  the  Ex- 
change Telegraph  Company  to  wire  me  anything 
of  importance  during  my  stay  here." 

"You  are  always  so  good,"  she  said. 

Then  he  took  pity  on  Sarah's  impatience,  and 
left  the  little  worshipper  to  the  interview  with  her 
idol  which  she  so  earnestly  desired. 


302  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  I  will  go  and  pay  my  respects  to  my  cousins," 
said  John. 

But  the  banqueting-hall  was  deserted,  and 
gaps  in  the  row  of  clogs  and  goloshes  suggested 
that  the  old  ladies  were  taking  a  morning  stroll. 
They  had  not  thought  it  proper  to  drive,  save  in 
a  close  carriage,  since  their  brother's  death ;  and 
on  such  a  warm  day  of  spring  weather  a  close 
carriage  was  not  inviting  to  country-bred  people. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

JOHN  took  his  hat  and  stepped  out  once  more  upon 
the  drive,  and  there  met  Dr.  Blundell,  who  had 
left  his  dog-cart  at  the  stables,  and  was  walking 
up  to  the  house. 

He  did  not  pause  to  analyze  the  sentiment  of 
slight  annoyance  which  clouded  his  usual  good 
humour;  but  Dr.  Blundell  divined  it,  with  the 
quickness  of  an  ultra -sensitive  nature.  He  showed 
no  signs  that  he  had  done  so. 

"It  was  you  I  came  to  see,"  he  said,  shaking 
hands  with  John.  "I  heard — you  know  how 
quickly  news  spreads  here — that  you  had  arrived. 
I  hoped  you  might  spare  me  a  few  moments  for  a 
little  conversation." 

"Certainly,"  said  John.  "Will  you  come  in, 
or  shall  we  take  a  turn?" 

"  You  will  be  glad  of  a  breath  of  fresh  air  after 
your  journey,"  said  the  doctor,  and  he  led  the  way 
across  the  south  terrace,  to  a  sheltered  corner  of 
the  level  plateau  upon  which  the  house  was  built, 
which  was  known  as  the  fountain  garden. 

It  was  rather  a  deserted  garden,  thickly  sur- 
rounded and  overgrown  by  shrubs.  Through  the 

108 


104  PETER'S  MOTHER 

immense  spreading  Portuguese  laurels  which 
sheltered  it  from  the  east,  little  or  no  sunshine 
found  its  way  to  the  grey,  moss-grown  basin  and 
the  stone  figures  supporting  it ;  over  which  a  thin 
stream  of  water  continually  flowed  with  a  melan- 
choly rhythm,  in  perpetual  twilight. 

A  giant  ivy  grew  rankly  and  thickly  about  the 
stone  buttresses  of  this  eastern  corner  of  the  house, 
and  around  a  great  mullioned  window  which  over- 
looked the  fountain  garden,  and  which  was  the 
window  of  Lady  Mary's  bedroom. 

"These  shrubberies  want  thinning,"  said 
John,  looking  round  him  rather  disgustedly. 
"  This  place  is  reeking  with  damp.  I  should  like 
to  cut  down  some  of  these  poisonous  laurels,  and 
let  in  the  air  and  the  sunshine,  and  open  out  the 
view  of  the  Brawnton  hills." 

"And  why  don't  you?"  said  the  doctor,  with 
such  energy  in  his  tone  that  John  stopped  short 
in  his  pacing  of  the  gravel  walk,  and  looked  at  him. 

The  two  men  were  almost  as  unlike  in  appear- 
ance as  in  character. 

The  doctor  was  nervous,  irritable,  and  intense 
in  manner;  with  deep-set,  piercing  eyes  that 
glowed  like  hot  coal  when  he  was  moved  or  ex- 
cited. A  tall,  gaunt  man,  lined  and  wrinkled 
beyond  his  years;  careless  of  appearance,  so  far 
as  his  shabby  clothes  were  concerned,  yet  careful 
of  detail,  as  was  proven  by  spotless  linen  and 
well-preserved,  delicate  hands. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  105 

He  was  indifferent  utterly  to  the  opinion  of 
others,  to  his  own  worldly  advancement,  or  to 
any  outer  consideration,  when  in  pursuit  of  the 
profession  he  loved ;  and  he  knew  no  other  inter- 
est in  life,  save  one.  He  had  the  face  of  a  fanatic 
or  an  enthusiast ;  but  also  of  a  man  whose  under- 
standing had  been  so  cultivated  as  to  temper 
enthusiasm  with  judgment. 

He  had  missed  success,  and  was  neither  re- 
signed to  his  disappointment,  nor  embittered  by  it. 

The  gaze  of  those  dark  eyes  was  seldom  intro- 
spective ;  rather,  as  it  seemed,  did  they  look  out 
eagerly,  sadly,  pitifully  at  the  pain  and  sorrow  of 
the  world ;  a  pain  he  toiled  manfully  to  lessen,  so 
far  as  his  own  infinitesimal  corner  of  the  universe 
was  concerned. 

John  Crewys,  on  the  other  hand,  was,  to  the 
most  casual  observer,  a  successful  man;  a  man 
whose  personality  would  never  be  overlooked. 

There  was  a  more  telling  force  in  his  composure 
than  in  the  doctor's  nervous  energy.  His  clear  eyes, 
his  bright,  yet  steady  glance,  inspired  confidence. 

The  doctor  might  have  been  taken  for  a  poet, 
but  John  looked  like  a  philosopher. 

He  was  also,  as  obviously,  in  appearance,  a 
man  of  the  world,  and  a  Londoner,  as  the  doctor 
was  evidently  a  countryman,  and  a  hermit.  His 
advantages  over  the  doctor  included  his  voice, 
which  was  as  deep  and  musical  as  the  tones  of  his 
companion  were  harsh. 


106  PETER'S  MOTHER 

The  manner,  no  less  than  the  matter  of  John's 
speech,  had  early  brought  him  distinction. 

Nature,  rather  than  cultivation,  had  bestowed 
on  him  the  faculty  of  conveying  the  impression  he 
wished  to  convey,  in  tones  that  charm ;  and  held 
his  auditors,  and  penetrated  ears  dulled  and 
fatigued  by  monotony  and  indistinctness. 

The  more  impassioned  his  pleading,  the  more 
utterly  he  held  his  own  emotion  in  check;  the 
more  biting  his  subtly  chosen  words,  the  more 
courteous  his  manner;  now  deadly  earnest,  now 
humorously  scornful,  now  graciously  argumenta- 
tive, but  always  skilfully  and  designedly  con- 
vincing. 

The  doctor,  save  in  the  presence  of  a  patient, 
had  no  such  control  over  himself  as  John  Crewys 
carried  from  the  law-courts,  into  his  life  of  every 
day. 

"  Why  don't  you,"  he  said,  in  fiery  tones,  "  let 
in  air  and  life,  and  a  view  of  the  outside  world,  and 
as  much  sunshine  as  possible  into  this  musty  old 
house?  You  have  the  power,  if  you  had  only  the 
will." 

"You  speak  figuratively,  I  notice,"  said  John. 
"  I  should  be  much  obliged  if  you  would  tell  me 
exactly  what  you  mean." 

He  would  have  answered  in  warmer  and  more 
kindly  tones  had  Sarah's  words  not  rung  upon  his 
ear. 

Was  the  doctor  going  to  fight  Lady  Mary's 


PETER'S  MOTHER  107 

battles  now,  and  with  him,  of  all  people  in  the 
world?  As  though  there  were  any  one  in  the  world 
to  whom  her  interests  could  be  dearer  than 

John  stopped  short  in  his  thoughts,  and  looked 
attentively  at  the  doctor.  His  heart  smote  him. 
How  pallid  was  that  tired  face;  and  the  hollow 
eyes,  how  sad  and  tired  too!  The  doctor  had 
been  up  all  night,  in  a  wretched  isolated  cottage, 
watching  a  man  die — but  John  did  not  know 
that. 

He  perceived  that  this  was  no  meddler,  but  a 
man  speaking  of  something  very  near  his  heart; 
no  presuming  and  interfering  outsider  who  de- 
served a  snub,  but  a  man  suffering  from  some  deep 
and  hidden  cause. 

The  doctor's  secret  was  known  to  John  long 
before  he  had  finished  what  he  had  to  say ;  but  he 
listened  attentively,  and  gave  no  sign  that  this 
was  so. 

"  She  will  die,"  said  Blundell,  "  if  this  goes  on ;" 
and  he  neither  mentioned  any  name,  nor  did  John 
Crewys  require  him  to  do  so. 

The  doctor's  words  came  hurrying  out  inco- 
herently from  the  depths  of  his  anxiety  and 
earnestness. 

."  She  will  die  if  this  goes  on.  There  were  few 
hopes  and  little  enough  pleasure  in  her  life  before ; 
but  what  is  left  to  her  now?  De  mortuis  nil  nisi 
bonum.  But  just  picture  to  yourself  for  a 
moment,  man,  what  her  Kfe  has  been." 


108  PETER'S  MOTHER 

He  stopped  and  drew  breath,  and  strove  to 
speak  calmly  and  dispassionately. 

"I  was  born  in  the  valley  of  the  Youle,"  he 
said.  "  My  people  live  in  a  cottage — they  call  it  a 
house,  but  it's  just  a  farm — on  the  river, — Cul- 
lacott.  I  was  a  raw  medical  student  when  she 
came  here  as  a  child.  Her  father  was  killed  in  the 
Afghan  War.  He  had  quarrelled  with  his  uncle, 
they  said,  who  afterwards  succeeded  to  the  earl- 
dom; so  she  was  left  to  the  guardianship  of  Sir 
Timothy,  a  distant  cousin.  Every  one  was  sorry 
for  her,  because  Sir  Timothy  was  her  guardian, 
and  because  she  was  a  little  young  thing  to  be  left 
to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  two  old  ladies,  who 
were  old  even  then.  If  you  will  excuse  my  speak- 
ing frankly  about  the  family" — John  nodded — 
"they  bullied  their  brother  always;  what  with 
their  superiority  of  birth,  and  his  being  so  much 
younger,  and  so  on.  Their  bringing-up  made  him 
what  he  was,  I  am  sure.  He  went  nowhere;  he 
always  fancied  people  were  laughing  at  him.  His 
feeling  about  his — his  mother's  lowly  origin 
seemed  to  pervade  his  whole  life.  He  exag- 
gerated the  importance  of  birth  till  it  became  al- 
most a  mania.  If  you  hadn't  known  the  man,  you 
couldn't  have  believed  a  human  being — one  of  the 
million  crawling  units  on  the  earth — could  be  so 
absurdly  inflated  with  self-importance.  It  was 
pitiful.  He  went  nowhere,  and  saw  no  one.  I 
believe  he  thought  that  Providence  had  sent  a 


PETER'S  MOTHER  109 

wife  of  high  rank  to  his  very  door  to  enable  him 
partially  to  wipe  out  his  reproach.  She  looked 
like  a  child  when  she  came,  but  she  shot  up  very 
suddenly  into  womanhood.  If  you  ask  me  if  she 
was  unhappy,  I  declare  I  don't  think  so.  She  had 
never  realized,  I  should  think,  what  it  was  to  be 
snubbed  or  found  fault  with  in  her  life.  She  was 
a  motherless  child,  and  had  lived  with  her  old 
grandfather  and  her  young  father,  and  had  been 
very  much  spoilt.  And  they  were  both  snatched 
away  from  her,  as  it  were,  in  a  breath;  and  she 
alone  in  the  world,  with  an  uncle  who  was  only 
glad  to  get  rid  of  her  to  her  stranger  guardian. 
Well, — she  was  too  young  and  too  bright  and  too 
gay  to  be  much  downcast  for  all  the  old  women 
could  do.  She  laughed  at  their  scolding,  and 
when  they  tried  severity  she  appealed  to  Sir 
Timothy.  The  old  doctor  who  was  my  predeces- 
sor here  told  me  at  the  time  that  he  thought  she 
had  bewitched  Sir  Timothy;  but  afterwards  he 
said  that  he  believed  it  was  only  that  Sir  Timothy 
had  made  up  his  mind  even  then  to  quarter  the 
Setoun  arms  with  his  own.  Anyway,  he  went 
against  his  sisters  for  the  first  and  only  time  in  his 
life,  and  they  learnt  that  Lady  Mary  was  not  to  be 
interfered  with.  Whether  it  was  gratitude  or 
just  the  childish  satisfaction  of  triumphing  over 
her  two  enemies,  I  can't  tell,  but  she  married  him 
in  less  than  two  years  after  she  came  to  live  at 
Barracombe.  The  old  ladies  didn't  know  whether 


110  PETER'S  MOTHER 

to  be  angry  or  pleased.  They  wanted  him  to 
marry,  and  they  wanted  his  wife  to  be  well-born, 
no  doubt ;  but  to  have  a  mere  child  set  over  them ! 
Well,  the  marriage  took  place  in  London." 

"  I  was  present,"  said  John. 

"The  people  here  said  things  about  it  that 
may  have  got  round  to  Sir  Timothy ;  but  I  don't 
know.  He  never  came  down  to  the  village,  ex- 
cept to  church,  where  he  sat  away  from  everybody, 
in  the  gallery  curtained  off.  Anyway,  he  wouldn't 
have  the  wedding  down  here.  He  invited  all  her 
relatives,  and  none  of  them  had  a  word  to  say. 
It  wasn't  as  if  she  were  an  heiress.  I  believe  she 
had  next  to  nothing.  She  was  just  like  a  child, 
laughing,  and  pleased  at  getting  married,  and 
with  all  her  finery,  perhaps, — or  at  getting  rid  of 
her  lessons  with  the  old  women  may  be, — and  the 
thought  of  babies  of  her  own.  Who  knows  what 
a  girl  thinks  of?"  said  the  doctor,  harshly.  "I 
didn't  see  her  again  for  a  long  time  after.  But 
then  I  came  down;  the  Brawnton  doctor  was 
getting  old,  and  it  was  a  question  whether  I  should 
succeed  him  or  go  on  in  London,  where  I  was 
doing  well  enough.  And — and  I  came  here,"  said 
the  doctor,  abruptly. 

John  nodded  again.  He  rilled  in  the  gaps  of 
the  doctor's  narrative  for  himself,  and  under- 
stood. 

"  She  had  changed  very  much.  All  the  gaiety 
and  laughter  gone.  But  she  was  wrapt  up  in  the 


PETER'S  MOTHER  111 

child  as  I  never  saw  any  woman  wrapt  up  in  a  brat 
before  or  since;  and  I've  known  some  that  were 
pretty  ridiculous  in  that  way,"  said  the  doctor, 
and  his  voice  shook  more  than  ever.  "  It  was — 
touching,  for  she  was  but  a  child  herself;  and 
Peter,  between  you  and  me,  was  an  unpromising 
doll  for  a  child  to  play  with.  He  was  ugly  and 
ill-tempered,  and  he  wouldn't  be  caressed,  or 
dressed  up,  or  made  much  of,  from  the  first 
minute  he  had  a  will  of  his  own.  As  he  grew 
bigger  he  was  for  ever  having  rows  with  his 
father,  and  his  mother  was  for  ever  interceding 
for  him.  He  was  idle  at  school;  but  he  was  a 
manly  boy  enough  over  games  and  sport,  and  a 
capital  shot.  Anyway,  she  managed  to  be  proud 
of  him,  God  knows  how.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
this  war  was  the  making  of  him,  though,  poor 
chap,  if  he's  spared  to  see  the  end  of  it  all." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  the  discipline  will  do  him  a 
great  deal  of  good,"  said  John,  dryly. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  his  brief  interview  at 
Southampton  had  impressed  John  with  a  favour- 
able opinion  of  the  sulky  and  irresponsive  youth, 
who  had  there  listened  to  his  mother's  messages 
with  lowering  brow  and  downcast  eye.  Peter  had 
betrayed  no  sign  of  emotion,  and  almost  none  of 
gratitude  for  John's  hurried  and  uncomfortable 
journey  to  convey  that  message. 

"  A  few  hard  knocks  will  do  you  no  harm,  my 
young  friend;  and  I  almost  wish  you  may  get 


112  PETER'S  MOTHER 

them,"  John  had  said  to  himself  on  his  homeward 
journey;  dreading,  yet  expecting,  the  news  that 
awaited  him  at  Peter's  home,  and  for  which  he  had 
done  his  best  to  prepare  the  boy. 

"Too  much  consideration  hitherto  has  ruined 
him,"  said  the  doctor,  shortly.  "But  it's  not  of 
Peter  I'm  thinking,  one  way  or  the  other.  From 
the  time  he  went  first  to  school,  she's  had  to 
depend  entirely  on  her  own  resources — and  what 
are  they?" 

He  paused,  as  though  to  gather  strength  and 
energy  for  his  indictment. 

"  From  the  time  she  was  brought  here — except 
for  that  one  outing  and  a  change  to  Torquay,  I 
believe,  after  Peter's  birth — she  has  scarce  set 
foot  outside  Barracombe.  Sir  Timothy  would 
not,  so  he  was  resolved  she  should  not.  His 
sisters,  who  have  as  much  cultivation  as  that 
stone  figure,  disapproved  of  novel-reading — or  of 
any  other  reading,  I  should  fancy — and  he  fol- 
lowed suit.  Books  are  almost  unknown  in  this 
house.  The  library  bookcases  were  locked.  Sir 
Timothy  opened  them  once  in  a  while,  and  his 
sisters  dusted  the  books  with  their  own  hands; 
it  was  against  tradition  to  handle  such  valuable 
bindings.  He  hated  music,  and  the  piano  was 
not  to  be  played  in  his  presence.  Have  you  ever 
tried  it?  I'm  told  you're  musical.  It  belonged 
to  Lady  Belstone's  mother,  the  Honourable 
Rachel.  That  is  her  harp  which  stands  in  the 


PETER'S  MOTHER  113 

corner  of  the  hall.  Her  daughter  once  tinkled  a 
little,  I  believe;  but  the  prejudices  of  the  ruling 
monarch  were  religiously  obeyed.  Music  was 
taboo  at  Barracombe.  Dancing  was  against  their 
principles,  and  theatres  they  regard  with  horror, 
and  have  never  been  inside  one  in  their  lives. 
Nothing  took  Sir  Timothy  to  London  but  business ; 
and  if  it  were  possible  to  have  the  business  brought 
to  Barracombe,  his  solicitor,  Mr.  Crawley,  visited 
him  here." 

The  doctor  spoke  in  lower  tones,  as  he  recurred 
to  his  first  theme. 

"I  don't  think  she  found  out  for  years,  or 
realized  what  a  prisoner  she  was.  They  caught 
and  pinned  her  down  so  young.  There  are  no 
very  near  neighbours — I  mean,  not  the  sort  of 
people  they  would  recognize  as  neighbours — ex- 
cept the  Hewels.  Youlestone  is  such  an  out-of- 
the-way  place,  and  Sir  Timothy  was  never  on 
intimate  terms  with  any  one.  Mrs.  Hewel  is  a 
fool — there  was  only  little  Sarah  whom  Lady 
Mary  made  a  pet  of — but  she  had  no  friends. 
Sir  Timothy  and  his  sisters  made  visiting  such  a 
stiff  and  formal  business,  that  it  was  no  wonder 
she  hated  paying  calls;  the  more  especially  as  it 
could  lead  to  nothing.  He  would  not  entertain; 
he  grudged  the  expense.  I  was  present  at  a 
scene  he  once  made  because  a  large  party  drove 
over  from  a  distant  house  and  stayed  to  tea.  He 
said  he  could  not  entertain  the  county.  She 


114  PETER'S  MOTHER 

dared  ask  no  one  to  her  house — she,  who  was  so 
formed  and  fitted  by  nature  to  charm  and  attract, 
and  enjoy  social  intercourse."  His  voice  faltered. 
"They  stole  her  youth,"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  said  John, 
though  he  was  vaguely  conscious  that  he  under- 
stood for  what  the  doctor  was  pleading. 

He  sat  down  by  the  fountain ;  and  the  doctor, 
resting  a  mended  boot  on  the  end  of  the  bench, 
leant  on  his  bony  knee,  and  looked  down  wistfully 
at  John's  thoughtful  face,  broad  brow,  and  bright, 
intent  eyes. 

"You  are  a  very  clever  man,  Mr.  Crewys,"  he 
said  humbly.  "A  man  of  the  world,  successful, 
accomplished,  and,  I  believe,  honest" — he  spoke 
with  a  simplicity  that  disarmed  offence — "or  I 
should  not  have  ventured  as  I  have  ventured. 
Somehow  you  inspire  me  with  confidence.  I  be- 
lieve you  can  save  her.  I  believe  you  could  find 
a  way  to  bring  back  her  peace  of  mind;  the  in- 
terest in  life — the  gaiety  of  heart — that  is  natural 
to  her.  If  I  were  in  your  place,  not  the  two  old 
women — not  Sir  Timothy's  ghost — not  that  poor 
conceited  slip  of  a  lad  who  may  be  shot  to-morrow 
—would  stand  in  my  way.  I  would  bring  back 
the  colour  to  her  cheek,  and  the  light  to  her  eye, 
and  the  music  to  her  voice " 

"Whilst  her  boy  is  in  danger?"  John  asked, 
almost  scornfully.  He  thought  he  knew  Lady 
Mary  better  than  the  doctor  did,  after  all. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  115 

"I  tell  you  nothing  would  stop  me,"  said 
Blundell,  vehemently.  "Before  I  would  let  her 
fret  herself  to  death — afraid  to  break  the  spells 
that  have  been  woven  round  her,  bound  as  she  is, 
hand  and  foot,  with  the  prejudices  of  the  dead — 
I  would — I  would — take  her  to  South  Africa  my- 
self," he  said  brilliantly.  "The  voyage  would 
bring  her  back  to  life." 

John  got  up.  "  That  is  an  idea,"  he  said.  He 
paused  and  looked  at  the  doctor.  "You  have 
known  her  longer  than  I.  Have  you  said  nothing 
to  her  of  all  this?" 

The  doctor  smiled  grimly.  "Mr.  Crewys,"  he 
said,  "some  time  since  I  spoke  my  mind — a 
thing  I  am  over-apt  to  do — of  Peter,  and  to  him. 
The  lad  has  forgiven  me ;  he  is  a  man,  you  see, with 
all  his  faults.  But  Lady  Mary,  though  she  has  all 
the  virtues  of  a  woman,  is  also  a  mother.  A  woman 
often  forgives;  a  mother,  never.  Don't  forget." 

"I  will  not,"  said  John. 

"And  you'll  do  it- 

"Use  the  unlimited  authority  that  has  been 
placed  in  my  hands,  by  improving  this  tumble- 
down, overgrown  place?"  said  John,  slowly. 
"  Let  in  light,  air,  and  sunshine  to  Barracombe,  and 
do  my  best  to  brighten  Lady  Mary's  life,  without  re- 
ference to  any  one's  prejudices,  past  or  present?" 

"You've  got  the  idea,"  said  the  doctor,  joy- 
fully. "  Will  you  carry  it  out?  " 

"Yes,  "said  John. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  new  moon  brightened  above  the  rim  of  the 
opposite  hill,  and  touched  the  river  below  with 
silver  reflections.  On  the  grass  banks  sloping 
away  beneath  the  terrace  gardens,  sheets  of  blue- 
bells shone  almost  whitely  on  the  grass.  The 
silent  house  rose  against  the  dark  woods,  whitened 
also  here  and  there  by  the  blossom  of  wild  cherry- 
trees. 

Lady  Mary  stepped  from  the  open  French 
windows  of  the  drawing-room  into  the  still, 
scented  air  of  the  April  night.  She  stood  leaning 
against  the  stone  balcony,  and  gazing  at  the  won- 
derful panorama  of  the  valley  and  overlapping 
hills ;  where  the  little  river  threaded  its  untroubled 
course  between  daisied  meadows  and  old  orchards 
and  red  crumbling  banks. 

A  broad-shouldered  figure  appeared  in  the 
window,  and  a  man's  step  crunched  the  gravel  of 
the  path  which  Lady  Mary  had  crossed. 

"For  once  I  have  escaped,  you  see,"  she  said, 
without  turning  round.  "They  will  not  venture 
into  the  night  air.  Sometimes  I  think  they  will 
drive  me  mad — Isabella  and  Georgina." 

lie 


PETER'S  MOTHER  117 

"  Mary! "  cried  a  shrill  voice  from  the  drawing- 
room,  "  how  can  you  be  so  imprudent!  John,  how 
can  you  allow  her!" 

John  stepped  back  to  the  window.  "  It  is  very 
mild,"  he  said.  "Lady  Mary  likes  the  air." 

There  was  a  note  of  authority  in  his  tone 
which  somehow  impressed  Lady  Belstone,  who 
withdrew,  muttering  to  herself,  into  the  warm 
lamplight  of  the  drawing-room. 

Perhaps  the  two  old  ladies  were  to  be  pitied,  too, 
as  they  sat  together,  but  forlorn,  sincerely  shocked 
and  uneasy  at  their  sister-in-law's  behaviour. 

"Dear  Timothy  not  dead  three  months,  and 
she  sitting  out  there  in  the  night  air,  as  he  would 
never  have  permitted,  talking  and  laughing;  yes, 
I  actually  hear  her  laughing — with  John." 

"There  is  no  telling  what  she  may  do  now," 
said  Miss  Crewys,  gloomily. 

"I  declare  it  is  a  judgment,  Georgina.  Why 
did  Timothy  choose  to  trust  a  perfect  stranger — 
even  though  John  is  a  cousin — with  the  care  of 
his  wife  and  son,  and  his  estate,  rather  than  his 
own  sisters?" 

"It  was  a  gentleman's  work,"  said  Miss 
Crewys. 

"  Gentleman's  fiddlesticks !  Couldn't  old  Craw- 
ley  have  done  it?  I  should  hope  he  is  as  good  a 
lawyer  as  young  John  any  day,"  said  Lady  Bel- 
stone,  tossing  her  head.  "  But  I  have  often  no- 
ticed that  people  will  trust  any  chance  stranger 


118  PETER'S  MOTHER 

with  the  property  they  leave  behind,  rather  than 
those  they  know  best." 

"Isabella,"  said  Miss  Crewys,  "blame  not  the 
dead,  and  especially  on  a  moonlight  night.  It 
makes  my  blood  run  cold." 

"I  am  blaming  nobody,  Georgina;  but  I  will 
say  that  if  poor  Timothy  thought  proper  to  leave 
everything  else  in  the  hands  of  young  John,  he 
might  have  considered  that  you  and  I  had  a  better 
right  to  the  Dower  House  than  poor  dear  Mary, 
who,  of  course,  must  live  with  her  son." 

"  I  am  far  from  wishing  or  intending  to  leave 
my  home  here,  Isabella,"  said  Miss  Crewys.  "It 
is  very  different  in  your  case.  You  forfeited  the 
position  of  daughter  of  the  house  when  you 
married.  But  I  have  always  occupied  my  old 
place,  and  my  old  room." 

This  was  a  sore  subject.  On  Lady  Belstone's 
return  as  a  widow,  to  the  home  of  her  fathers,  she 
had  been  torn  with  anxiety  and  indecision  regard- 
ing her  choice  of  a  sleeping  apartment.  Senti- 
ment dictated  her  return  to  her  former  bedroom; 
but  she  was  convinced  that  the  married  state  re- 
quired a  domicile  on  the  first  floor.  Etiquette 
prevailed,  and  she  descended;  but  the  eighty- 
year-old  legs  of  Miss  Crewys  still  climbed  the  nur- 
sery staircase,  and  she  revenged  herself  for  her 
inferior  status  by  insisting,  in  defiance  of  old  asso- 
ciations, that  her  maid  should  occupy  the  room 
next  to  her  own,  which  her  sister  had  abandoned. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  119 

"  For  my  part,  I  can  sleep  in  one  room  as  well 
as  another,  provided  it  be  comfortable  and  ap- 
propriate,1' said  Lady  Belstone,  with  dignity. 
"There  are  very  pleasant  rooms  in  the  Dower 
House,  and  our  great-aunts  managed  to  live  there 
in  comfort,  and  yet  keep  an  eye  on  their  nephew 
here,  as  I  have  always  been  told.  I  don't  know 
why  we  should  object  to  doing  the  same.  You 
have  never  tried  being  mistress  of  your  own  house, 
Georgina,  but  I  can  assure  you  it  has  its  advan- 
tages ;  and  I  found  them  out  as  a  married  woman. " 

"A  married  woman  has  her  husband  to  look 
after  her,"  said  Miss  Crewys.  "  It  is  very  different 
for  a  widow." 

"  You  are  for  ever  throwing  my  widowhood  in 
my  teeth,  Georgina,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  plain- 
tively. "It  is  not  my  fault  that  I  am  a  widow. 
I  did  not  murder  the  admiral." 

"  I  don't  say  you  did,  Isabella,"  said  Geor- 
gina, grimly;  "but  he  only  survived  his  marriage 
six  months." 

"  It  is  nice  to  be  silent  sometimes,"  said  Lady 
Mary. 

"  Does  that  mean  that  I  am  to  go  away?"  said 
John,  "  or  merely  that  I  am  not  to  speak  to  you? " 

She  laughed  a  little.  "Neither.  It  means 
that  I  am  tired  of  being  scolded." 

"  I  have  wondered  now  and  then,"  said  John, 
deliberately,  "  why  you  put  up  with  it?" 


120  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  I  suppose — because  I  can't  help  it,"  she  said, 
startled. 

"You  are  a  free  agent." 

"You  mean  that  I  could  go  away?"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice.  "But  there  is  only  one  place  I 
should  care  to  go  to  now." 

"To  South  Africa?" 

"You  always  understand,"  she  said  gratefully. 

"  Supposing  this — this  ghastly  war  should  not 
be  over  as  soon  as  we  all  hope,"  he  said,  rather 
huskily,  "  I  could  escort  you  myself,  in  a  few 
weeks'  time,  to  the  Cape.  Or — or  arrange  for 
your  going  earlier  if  you  desired,  and  if  I  could  not 
get  away.  Probably  you  would  get  no  further 
than  Cape  Town;  but  it  might  be  easier  for  you 
waiting  there — than  here." 

"  I  shall  thank  you,  and  bless  you  always,  for 
thinking  of  it,"  she  interrupted,  softly;  "but 
there  is  something — that  I  never  told  anybody." 

He  waited. 

"After  Peter  had  the  news  of  his  father's 
death,"  said  Lady  Mary,  with  a  sob  in  her  throat, 
"you  did  not  know  that  he — he  telegraphed  to 
me,  from  Madeira.  He  foresaw  immediately,  I 
suppose,  whither  my  foolish  impulses  would  lead 
me;  and  he  asked  me — I  should  rather  say  he 
ordered  me — under  no  circumstances  whatever  to 
follow  him  out  to  South  Africa." 

John  remembered  the  doctor's  warning,  and 
said  nothing. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  121 

"So,  you  see — I  can't  go,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  I  am  bound  to  say,"  said  John,  presently, 
"  that,  in  Peter's  place,  I  should  not  have  liked  my 
mother,  or  any  woman  I  loved,  to  come  out  to  the 
seat  of  war.  He  showed  only  a  proper  care  for 
you  in  forbidding  it.  Perhaps  I  am  less  courage- 
ous than  he,  in  thinking  more  of  the  present  bene- 
fit you  would  derive  from  the  voyage  and  the 
change  of  scene,  than  of  the  perils  and  discomforts 
which  might  await  you,  for  aught  we  can  foretell 
now,  at  the  end  of  it.  Peter  certainly  showed 
judgment  in  telegraphing  to  you." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?  That  it  was  care  for 
me  that  made  him  do  it?"  she  asked.  A  distant 
doubtful  joy  sounded  in  her  voice.  "  Somehow  I 
never  thought  of  that.  I  remembered  his  old  dis- 
like of  being  followed  about,  or  taken  care  of,  or — 
or  spied  upon,  as  he  used  to  call  it." 

"  Boys  just  turning  into  men  are  often  sensi- 
tive on  those  points,"  said  John,  heedful  always 
of  the  doctor's  warning. 

"It  is  odd  I  did  not  see  the  telegram  in  that 
light,"  said  poor  Lady  Mary.  "I  must  read  it 
again." 

She  spoke  as  hopefully  as  though  she  had  not 
read  it  already  a  hundred  times  over,  trying  to 
read  loving  meanings,  that  were  not  there,  be- 
tween the  curt  and  peremptory  lines. 

"  It  is  not  odd,"  thought  John  to  himself;  "it 


122  PETER'S  MOTHER 

is  because  you  knew  him  too  well;"  and  he  won- 
dered whether  his  explanation  of  Peter's  action 
were  charitable,  or  merely  unscrupulous. 

But  Lady  Mary  was  not  really  deceived ;  only 
very  grateful  to  the  man  who  was  so  tender  of 
heart,  so  tactful  of  speech,  as  to  make  it  seem  even 
faintly  possible  that  she  had  misjudged  her  boy. 

She  said  to  herself  that  parents  were  often  un- 
reasonable, expecting  impossibilities,  in  their  wild 
desire  for  perfection  in  their  offspring.  An  out- 
sider, being  unprejudiced  by  anxiety,  could  judge 
more  fairly.  John  found  that  the  telegram, 
which  had  almost  broken  her  heart,  was  reason- 
able and  justified;  nay,  even  that  it  displayed  a 
dutiful  regard  for  her  safety  and  comfort,  of 
which  no  one  but  a  stranger  could  possibly  have 
suspected  Peter.  She  was  grateful  to  John.  It 
was  a  relief  and  joy  to  feel  that  it  was  she  who  was 
to  blame,  and  not  Peter,  whose  heart  was  in  the 
right  place,  after  all.  And  yet,  though  John  was 
so  clever  and  had  such  an  experience  of  human 
nature,  it  was  the  doctor  who  had  put  the  key  into 
his  hands,  which  presently  unlocked  Lady  Mary's 
confidence. 

"  You  mustn't  think,  John,  that  I  don't  under- 
stand what  it  will  be  like  later,  when  Peter  comes 
of  age.  Of  course  this  house  will  be  his,  and  he  is 
not  the  kind  of  young  man  to  be  tied  to  his 
mother's  apron-string.  He  always  wanted  to  be 
independent." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  123 

"  It  is  human  nature,"  said  John. 

"  I  am  not  blind  to  his  faults,"  said  Lady  Mary, 
humbly,  "  though  they  all  think  so.  It  is  of  little 
use  to  try  and  hide  them  from  you,  who  will  see 
them  for  yourself  directly  my  darling  comes  back. 
I  pray  God  it  may  be  soon.  Of  course  he  is  spoilt ; 
but  I  am  to  blame,  because  I  made  him  my  idol." 

"An  only  son  is  always  more  or  less  spoilt," 
said  John.  He  remembered  his  own  boyhood, 
and  smiled  sardonically  in  the  darkness.  "He 
will  grow  out  of  it.  He  will  come  back  a  man 
after  this  experience." 

"Yes,  yes,  and  he  will  want  to  live  his  life, 
and  I — I  shall  have  to  learn  to  do  without  him, 
I  know,"  she  said.  "I  must  learn  while  he  is 
away  to — to  depend  on  myself.  It  is  not  likely 
that — that  a  woman  of  my  age  should  have  much 
in  common  with  a  manly  boy  like  Peter.  Some- 
times I  wonder  whether  I  really  understand  my 
boy  at  all." 

"It  is  my  belief,"  said  John,  "that  no  gen- 
eration is  in  perfect  touch  with  another.  Each 
stands  on  a  different  rung  of  the  ladder  of  Time. 
You  may  stoop  to  lend  a  helping  hand  to  the 
younger,  or  reach  upwards  to  take  a  farewell  of 
the  older.  But  there  must  be  a  looking  down  or 
a  looking  up.  No  face-to-face  talk  is  possible 
except  upon  the  same  level.  No  real  and  true 
comradeship.  The  very  word  implies  a  marching 
together,  under  the  same  circumstances,  to  a 


124  PETER'S  MOTHER 

common  goal;  and  how  can  we,  who  have  to  be 
the  commanding  officers  of  the  young,  be  their 
true  companions? "  he  said,  lightly  and  cheerfully. 

"  I  dare  say  I  have  expected  impossibilities," 
said  Lady  Mary,  as  though  reproaching  herself. 
"It  comforts  me  to  think  so.  But  I  have  had 
time  to  reflect  on  many  things  since — February." 
She  paused.  "  I  don't  deny  I  have  tried  to  make 
plans  for  the  future.  But  there  are  these  days  to 
be  lived  through  first — until  he  comes  home." 

"  I  was  going  to  propose,"  said  John,  "  that,  if 
agreeable  to  you,  I  should  spend  my  summer  and 
autumn  holiday  here,  instead  of  going,  as  usual, 
to  Switzerland." 

"  I  should  be  only  too  glad,"  she  said,  in  tones 
of  awakened  interest.  "  But  surely — it  would  be 
very  dull  for  you?" 

"  Not  at  all.  There  is  a  great  deal  to  be  done, 
and  in  accordance  with  my  trust  I  am  bound  to 
set  about  it,"  said  John.  "  I  propose  to  spend  the 
next  few  days  in  examining  the  reports  of  the 
surveys  that  have  already  been  made,  and  in  judg- 
ing of  their  accuracy  for  myself.  When  I  return 
here  later,  I  could  have  the  work  begun,  and  then 
for  some  time  I  could  superintend  matters  per- 
sonally, which  is  always  a  good  thing." 

"Do  you  mean — the  woods?"  she  asked.  "I 
know  they  have  been  neglected.  Sir  Timothy 
would  never  have  a  tree  cut  down ;  but  they  are 
so  wild  and  beautiful." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  125 

"There  are  hundreds  of  pounds'  worth  of  tim- 
ber perishing  for  want  of  attention.  I  am  respon- 
sible for  it  all  until  Peter  comes  of  age,"  said  John, 
"as  I  am  for  the  rest  of  his  inheritance.  It  is 
part  of  my  trust  to  hand  over  to  him  his  house  and 
property  in  the  best  order  I  can,  according  to  my 
own  judgment.  I  know  something  of  forestry," 
he  added,  simply;  "you  know  I  was  not  bred  a 
Cockney.  I  was  to  have  been  a  Hertfordshire 
squire,  on  a  small  scale,  had  not  circumstances 
necessitated  the  letting  of  my  father's  house  when 
he  died." 

" But  it  will  be  yours  again  some  day?" 

"  No,"  said  John,  quietly ;  "  it  had  to  be  sold — 
afterwards." 

He  gave  no  further  explanation,  but  Lady 
Mary  recollected  instantly  the  abuse  that  had  been 
showered  on  his  mother,  by  her  sisters-in-law, 
when  John  was  reported  to  have  sacrificed  his 
patrimony  to  pay  her  debts. 

"  I  rather  agree  with  you  about  the  woods," 
she  said.  "  It  vexes  me  always  to  see  a  beautiful 
young  tree,  that  should  be  straight  and  strong, 
turned  into  a  twisted  dwarf,  in  the  shade  of  the 
overgrowth  and  the  overcrowding.  The  woodman 
will  be  delighted;  he  is  always  grumbling." 

"  It  is  not  only  the  woods .    There  is  the  house . ' ' 

"I  suppose  it  wants  repairing?"  said  Lady 
Mary.  "  Hadn't  that  better  be  put  off  till  Peter 
comes  home?" 


126  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"I  cannot  neglect  my*  trust,"  said  John, 
gravely;  "besides,"  he  added,  "the  state  of  the 
roof  is  simply  appalling.  Many  of  the  beams  are 
actually  rotten.  Then  there  are  the  drains ;  they 
are  on  a  system  that  should  not  be  tolerated  in 
these  days.  Nothing  has  been  done  for  over 
sixty  years,  and  I  can  hardly  say  how  long 
before." 

"Won't  it  all  cost  a  great  deal  of  money?" 
said  Lady  Mary. 

"  A  good  deal ;  but  there  is  a  very  large  sum  of 
money  lying  idle,  which,  as  the  will  directs,  may  be 
applied  to  the  general  improvement  of  the  house 
and  estate  during  Peter's  minority;  but  over 
which  he  is  to  have  no  control,  should  it  remain 
unspent,  until  he  comes  of  age.  That  is  to  say,  it 
will  then — or  what  is  left  of  it — be  invested  with 
the  rest  of  his  capital,  which  is  all  strictly  tied  up. 
So,  as  old  Crawley  says,  it  will  relieve  Peter's  in- 
come in  the  future,  if  we  spend  what  is  necessary 
now,  according  to  our  powers,  in  putting  his  house 
and  estate  in  order.  It  would  have  to  be  done 
sooner  or  later,  most  assuredly.  Sir  Timothy,  as 
you  must  know,"  said  John,  gently,  "  did  not  spend 
above  a  third  of  his  actual  income ;  and,  so  far  as 
Mr.  Crawley  knows,  spent  nothing  at  all  on  repairs, 
beyond  jobs  to  the  village  carpenter  and  mason." 

"I  did  not  know,"  said  Lady  Mary.  "He 
always  told  me  we  were  very  badly  off — for  our 
position.  I  know  nothing  of  business.  I  did  not 


PETER'S  MOTHER  127 

attend  much  to  Mr.  Crawley's  explanations  at  the 
time." 

"You  were  unable  to  attend  to  him  then," 
said  John;  "but  now,  I  think,  you  should  under- 
stand the  exact  position  of  affairs.  Surely  my 
cousins  must  have  talked  it  over?" 

"  Isabella  and  Georgina  never  talk  business 
before  me.  You  forget  I  am  still  a  child  in  their 
eyes,"  she  said,  smiling.  "I  gathered  that  they 
were  disappointed  poor  Timothy  had  left  them 
nothing,  and  that  they  thought  I  had  too  much; 
that  is  all." 

"Their  way  of  looking  at  it  is  scarcely  in  ac- 
cordance with  justice,"  said  John,  shrugging  his 
shoulders .  "  They  each  have  ten  thousand  pounds 
left  to  them  by  their  father  in  settlement.  This 
was  to  return  to  the  estate  if  they  died  unmarried 
or  childless.  You  have  two  thousand  a  year  and 
the  Dower  House  for  your  life;  but  you  forfeit 
both  if  you  re-marry." 

"Of  course,"  said  Lady  Mary,  indifferently. 
" I  suppose  that  is  the  usual  thing?" 

"Not  quite,  especially  when  your  personal 
property  is  so  small." 

"  I  didn't  know  I  had  any  personal  property." 

"  About  five  hundred  pounds  a  year ;  perhaps 
a  little  more." 

"From  the  Setouns!"  she  cried. 

"From  your  father.  Surely  you  must  have 
known? " 


128  PETER'S  MOTHER 

Lady  Mary  was  silent  a  moment.  "No;  I 
didn't  know,"  she  said  presently.  "It  doesn't 
matter  now,  but  Timothy  never  told  me.  I 
thought  I  hadn't  a  farthing  in  the  world.  He 
never  mentioned  money  matters  to  me  at  all." 
Then  she  laughed  faintly.  "I  could  have  lived 
all  by  myself  in  a  cottage  in  Scotland,  without 
being  beholden  to  anybody — on  five  hundred 
pounds  a  year,  couldn't  I?" 

"There  is  no  reason  you  should  not  have  a 
cottage  in  Scotland  now,  if  you  fancy  one,"  said 
John,  cheerfully. 

"  The  only  memories  I  have  in  the  world,  out- 
side my  life  in  this  place,  are  of  my  childhood  at 
home,"  she  said. 

John  suddenly  realized  how  very,  very  limited 
her  experiences  had  been,  and  wondered  less  at 
the  almost  childish  simplicity  which  characterized 
her,  and  which  in  no  way  marred  her  natural  gra- 
ciousness  and  dignity.  Lady  Mary  did  not  ob- 
serve his  silence,  because  her  own  thoughts  were 
busy  with  a  scene  which  memory  had  painted  for 
her,  and  far  away  from  the  moonlit  valley  of  the 
Youle.  She  saw  a  tall,  narrow,  turreted  building 
against  a  ruddy  sunset  sky;  a  bare  ridge  of  hills 
crowned  sparsely  with  ragged  Scotch  firs ;  a  sea  of 
heather  which  had  seemed  boundless  to  a  childish 
imagination. 

"I  could  not  go  back  to  Scotland  now,"  she 
said,  with  that  little  wistful-sounding,  patient  sob 


PETER'S  MOTHER  129 

which  moved  John  to  such  pity  that  he  could 
scarce  contain  himself;  "but  some  day,  when  I 
am  free — when  nobody  wants  me." 

"London  is  the  only  place  worth  living  in 
just  now,  whilst  we  are  in  such  terrible  anxiety," 
he  said  boldly.  "At  least  there  are  the  papers 
and  telegrams  all  day  long,  and  none  of  this 
dreary,  long  waiting  between  the  posts;  and 
there  are  other  things — to  distract  one's  attention, 
and  keep  up  one's  courage." 

"I  do  not  know  what  Isabella  and  Georgina 
would  say,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

" But  you — would  you  not  care  to  come?" 

"Oh!"  she  said,  half  sobbing,  "it  is  because  I 
am  afraid  of  caring  too  much.  Life  seems  to  call 
so  loudly  to  me  now  and  then;  as  though  I  were 
tired  of  sitting  alone,  and  looking  up  the  valley 
and  down  the  valley.  I  know  it  all  by  heart.  It 
would  be  fresh  life;  the  stir,  the  movement; 
other  people,  fresh  ideas,  beautiful  new  things  to 
see.  But,  indeed,  you  must  not  tempt  me." 
There  was  an  accent  of  yearning  in  her  tone,  a 
hint  of  eager  anticipation,  as  of  a  good  time  com- 
ing; a  dream  postponed,  which  she  would  never- 
theless be  willing  one  day  to  enjoy.  "  I  mustn't 
go  anywhere;  I  couldn't — until  my  boy  comes 
home,  if  he  ever  comes  home,"  she  added,  under 
her  breath. 

"  But  when  he  comes  home  safe  and  sound,  as 
please  God  he  may,"  said  John,  cheerfully,  "why, 


130  PETER'S  MOTHER 

then  you  have  a  great  deal  of  lost  time  to  make 
up." 

"Ah,  yes!"  said  Lady  Mary,  and  again  that 
wistful  note  of  longing  sounded.  "  I  have  thought 
sometimes  I  would  not  like  to  die  before  I  have 
seen  my  birthplace  once  more.  And  there  is — 
Italy,"  she  said,  as  though  the  one  word  conveyed 
every  vision  of  earthly  beauty  which  mortal  could 
desire  to  behold — as,  indeed,  it  does.  And  again 
she  added,  "  But  I  don't  know  what  my  sisters-in- 
law  would  say.  It  would  be  against  all  the 
traditions." 

"  Surely  Lady  Belstone,  at  least,  must  be  less 
absurdly  narrow-minded,"  said  John,  almost  im- 
patiently. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  the  history  of  her  marriage? " 
said  Lady  Mary. 

Her  pretty  laugh  rang  out  softly  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  thrilled  John's  heart,  and  shocked  yet 
further  the  old  ladies  who  sat  within,  straining 
their  ears  for  the  sound  of  returning  footsteps. 

"It  took  place  about  forty  years  ago  or  less. 
A  cousin  of  her  mother's,  Sir  William  Belstone, 
came  to  spend  a  few  days  here.  I  believe  the 
poor  man  invited  himself,  because  he  happened 
to  be  staying  in  the  neighbourhood.  He  was  a 
gallant  old  sailor,  and  very  polite  to  both  his 
cousins;  and  one  day  Isabella  interpreted  his 
compliments  into  a  proposal  of  marriage.  Geor- 
gina  has  given  me  to  understand  that  no  one  was 


PETER'S  MOTHER  131 

ever  more  astounded  and  terrified  than  the  ad- 
miral when  he  found  himself  engaged  to  Isabella. 
But  apparently  he  was  a  chivalrous  old  gentleman, 
and  would  not  disappoint  her.  It  is  really  rather 
a  sad  little  story,  because  he  died  of  heart  disease 
very  soon  after  the  marriage.  Old  Mrs.  Ash,  the 
housekeeper,  always  declares  her  mistress  came 
home  even  more  old-maidish  in  her  ways  than  she 
went  away,  and  that  she  quarrelled  with  the  poor 
admiral  from  morning  till  night.  Perhaps  that  is 
why  she  has  never  lightened  her  garb  of  woe.  And 
she  makes  my  life  a  burden  to  me  because  I  won't 
wear  a  cap.  Ah!  how  heartless  it  all  sounds,  and 
yet  how  ridiculous !  Dear  Cousin  John,  haven't  I 
bored  you?  Let  us  go  in." 

With  characteristic  energy  John  Crewys  set  in 
hand  the  repairs  which  he  had  declared  to  be  so 
necessary. 

The  late  squire  had  apparently  been  as  well 
aware  of  the  neglected  state  of  his  ancestral  halls 
as  of  his  tangled  and  overgrown  woods;  but  he 
had  also,  it  seemed,  been  unable  to  make  up  his 
mind  to  take  any  steps  towards  amending  the 
condition  of  either — or  to  part  with  his  ever-in- 
creasing balance  at  his  bankers'. 

Sir  Timothy  had  carried  both  his  obstinacy 
and  his  dullness  into  his  business  affairs. 

The  family  solicitor,  Mr.  Crawley,  backed  up 
the  new  administrator  with  all  his  might. 

"  Over  sixty  thousand  pounds  uninvested,  and 


132  PETER'S  MOTHER 

lying  idle  at  the  bank,"  he  said,  lifting  his  hands 
and  eyes,  "and  one  long,  miserable  grumbling 
over  the  expense  of  keeping  up  Barracombe.  One 
good  tenant  after  another  lost  because  the  land- 
lord would  keep  nothing  in  repair ;  gardener  after 
gardener  leaving  for  want  of  a  shilling  increase  in 
weekly  wages.  In  case  Sir  Peter  should  turn  out 
to  resemble  his  father,  we  had  best  not  let  the 
grass  grow  under  our  feet,  Mr.  Crewys,"  said  the 
shrewd  gentleman,  chuckling,  "but  take  full  ad- 
vantage of  the  powers  entrusted  to  you  for  the 
next  two  years  and  a  quarter.  Sir  Peter,  luckily, 
does  not  come  of  age  until  October,  1902." 

"That  is  just  what  I  intend  to  do,"  said  John. 

"  Odd,  isn't  it,"  said  the  lawyer,  confidentially, 
"how  often  a  man  will  put  unlimited  power  into 
the  hands  of  a  comparative  stranger,  and  leave 
his  own  son  tied  hand  and  foot?  Not  a  penny 
of  all  this  capital  will  Sir  Peter  ever  have  the 
handling  of.  Perhaps  a  good  job  too.  Oh,  dear! 
when  I  look  at  the  state  of  his  affairs  in  general, 
I  feel  positively  guilty,  and  ashamed  to  have  had 
even  the  nominal  management  of  them.  But 
what  could  a  man  do  under  the  circumstances? 
He  paid  for  my  advice,  and  then  acted  directly 
contrary  to  it,  and  thought  he  had  done  a  clever 
thing,  and  outwitted  his  own  lawyer.  But  now 
we  shall  get  things  a  bit  straight,  I  hope.  What 
about  buying  Speccot  Farm,  Mr.  Crewys?  It's 
been  our  Naboth's  vineyard  for  many  a  day ;  but 


PETER'S  MOTHER  133 

we  haggled  over  the  price,  and  couldn't  make  up 
our  minds  to  give  what  the  farmer  wants.  He'll 
have  to  sell  in  the  end,  you  know ;  but  I  suppose 
he  could  hold  out  a  few  years  longer  if  we  don't 
give  way." 

"  He's  been  to  me  already,"  said  John.  " The 
price  he  asked  is  no  doubt  a  bit  above  its  proper 
value ;  but  it's  accommodation  land,  and  it  would 
be  disappointing  if  it  slipped  through  our  fingers. 
I  propose  to  offer  him  pretty  nearly  what  he  asks." 

"He'll  take  it,"  said  Mr.  Crawley,  with  satis- 
faction. "I  could  never  make  Sir  Timothy  see 
that  it  wouldn't  pay  the  fellow  to  turn  out  unless 
he  got  something  over  and  above  the  value  of  his 
mortgages." 

"  The  next  thing  I  want  you  to  arrange  is  the 
purchase  of  those  twenty  acres  of  rough  pasture 
and  gorse,  right  in  the  centre  of  the  property," 
said  John,  "  rented  by  the  man  who  lives  outside 
Youlestone,  at  what  they  call  Pott's  farm,  for  his 
wretched,  half-starved  beasts  to  graze  upon. 
He  's  saved  us  the  trouble  of  exterminating  the 
rabbits  there,  I  notice." 

"He's  an  inveterate  poacher.  A  good  thing 
to  give  him  no  further  excuse  to  hang  about  the 
place.  What  do  you  propose  to  do?" 

"Compensate  him,  burn  the  gorse,  cut  the 
bracken,  and  plant  larch.  There  are  enough 
picturesque  commons  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  where 
the  soil  is  poor,  and  land  is  cheap.  We  don't 


134  PETER'S  MOTHER 

want  them  in  the  valley.  Now  I  propose  to  give 
our  minds  to  the  restoration  of  the  house,  the 
drains,  the  stables,  and  the  home  farm.  Here  are 
my  estimates." 

Though  Mr.  Crawley  was  so  loyal  a  supporter 
of  the  regent  of  Barracombe,  yet  John's  projected 
improvements  were  far  too  thorough-going  to  gain 
the  approval  of  the  pottering  old  retainers  of  the 
Crewys  family,  though  they  were  unable  to  ques- 
tion his  knowledge  or  his  judgment. 

"  I  telled  'im  tu  du  things  by  the  littles,"  said 
the  woodman,  who  was  kept  at  work  marking 
trees  and  saplings  as  he  had  never  worked  before ; 
though  John  was  generous  of  help,  and  liberal  of 
pay.  "  But  lard,  he  bain't  one  tu  covet  nobody's 
gude  advice.  I  was  vair  terrified  tu  zee  arl  he 
knowed  about  the  drees.  The  squoire  'ee  wur  like 
a  babe  unbarn  beside  'un.  He  lukes  me  straight 
in  the  eyes,  and  'Luke,'  sezzee,  'us  'a'  got  tu  git 
the  place  in  vamous  arder  vur  young  Zur  Peter/ 
sezzee.  'An'  I  be  responsible,  and  danged  but 
what  'a'll  du't,'  'ee  zays.  An'  I  touched  my  yead, 
zo,  and  I  zays,  'Very  gude,  zur,'  'a  zays.  'An'  zo 
'twill  be,  yu  may  depend  on't." 

Perhaps  the  unwonted  stir  and  bustle,  the 
coming  and  going  of  John  Crewys,  the  confusion 
of  workmen,  the  novel  interest  of  renovating  and 
restoring  the  old  house,  helped  to  brace  and  for- 
tify Lady  Mary  during  the  months  which  followed ; 
months,  nevertheless,  of  suspense  and  anxiety, 


PETER'S  MOTHER  135 

which  reduced  her  almost  to  a  shadow  of  her 
former  self. 

For  Peter's  career  in  South  Africa  proved  an 
adventurous  one. 

He  had  the  good  luck  to  distinguish  himself  in 
a  skirmish  almost  immediately  after  his  arrival, 
and  to  win  not  only  the  approval  of  his  noble  rela- 
tive and  commander,  but  his  commission.  His 
next  exploit,  however,  ended  rather  disastrously, 
and  Peter  found  himself  a  prisoner  in  the  now 
historic  bird-cage  at  Pretoria,  where  he  spent  a 
dreary,  restless,  and  perhaps  not  wholly  un- 
profitable time,  in  the  society  of  men  greatly  his 
superior  in  soldierly  and  other  qualities. 

John  feared  that  his  mother's  resolution  not  to 
follow  her  boy  must  inevitably  be  broken  when 
the  news  of  his  capture  reached  Barracombe ;  but 
perhaps  Peter's  letters  had  repeated  the  peremp- 
tory injunctions  of  his  telegram,  for  she  never  pro- 
posed to  take  the  journey  to  South  Africa. 

The  wave  of  relief  and  thankfulness  that  swept 
over  the  country,  when  the  release  of  the  im- 
prisoned officers  became  known,  restored  not  a 
little  of  Lady  Mary's  natural  courage  and  spirits. 
She  became  more  hopeful  about  her  son,  and  more 
interested  daily  in  the  beautifying  and  restoration 
of  his  house. 

She  said  little  in  her  letters  to  Peter  of  the 
work  at  Barracombe,  for  John  advised  her  that 
the  boy  would  probably  hardly  understand  the 


136  PETER'S  MOTHER 

necessity  for  it,  and  she  herself  was  doubtful  of 
Peter's  approval  even  if  he  had  understood.  She 
had  too  much  intelligence  to  be  doubtful  of  John's 
wisdom,  or  of  Mr.  Crawley's  zeal  for  his  interest. 

The  letters  she  received  were  few  and  scanty, 
for  Peter  was  but  a  poor  correspondent,  and  he 
made  little  comment  on  the  explanatory  letter 
regarding  his  father's  will  which  John  and  Mr. 
Crawley  thought  proper  to  send  him.  The  soli- 
citor was  justly  indignant  at  Sir  Peter's  neglect  to 
reply  to  this  carefully  thought-out  and  faultlessly 
indited  epistle. 

"  He  is  just  a  chip  of  the  old  block,"  said  Mr. 
Crawley. 

But  his  mother  divined  that  Peter  was  partly 
offended  at  his  own  utter  exclusion  from  any 
share  of  responsibility,  and  partly  too  much  occu- 
pied to  give  much  attention  to  any  matter  outside 
his  soldiering.  She  said  to  herself  that  he  was 
really  too  young  to  be  troubled  with  business; 
and  she  began  to  believe,  as  the  work  at  Barra- 
combe  advanced,  that  the  results  of  so  much 
planning  and  forethought  must  please  him,  after 
all.  The  consolation  of  working  in  his  interests 
was  delightful  to  her.  Her  days  were  filling 
almost  miraculously,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  with  new 
occupations,  fresh  hopes,  and  happier  ideas,  than 
the  idle  dreaming  which  was  all  that  had  hitherto 
been  permitted  to  her.  John  desired  her  help,  or 
her  suggestions,  at  every  turn,  and  constantly  con- 


PETER'S  MOTHER  137 

suited  her  taste.  Her  artistic  instinct  for  decora- 
tion was  hardly  less  strong  than  his  own,  though 
infinitely  less  cultivated.  He  sent  her  the  most 
engrossing  and  delightful  books  to  repair  the 
omission,  and  he  brought  her  plans  and  drawings, 
which  he  begged  her  to  copy  for  him.  The  days 
which  had  hung  so  heavily  on  her  hands  were 
scarcely  long  enough. 

The  careful  restoration  of  the  banqueting-hall 
necessitated  new  curtains  and  chair-covers.  Lady 
Mary  looked  doubtfully  at  John  when  this  matter 
had  been  decided,  and  then  at  the  upholstery  of 
the  drawing-rooms  facing  the  south  terrace. 

The  faded  magenta  silk,  tarnished  gilded 
mirrors,  and  gold-starred  wall-paper  which  deco- 
rated these  apartments  had  offended  her  eye  for 
years.  John  laughed  at  her  hesitation,  and  ad- 
vised her  to  consult  her  sisters-in-law  on  the 
subject ;  and  this  settled  the  question. 

"They  would  choose  bottle-green,"  she  said, 
in  horror;  and  she  salved  her  conscience  by  pay- 
ing for  the  redecoration  of  the  drawing-rooms  out 
of  her  own  pocket. 

John  discovered  that  Lady  Mary  had  never 
drawn  a  cheque  in  her  life,  and  that  Mr.  Crawley's 
lessons  in  the  management  of  her  own  affairs  filled 
her  with  as  much  awe  as  amusement. 

So  the  old  order  changed  and  gave  place  to  the 
new  at  Barracombe;  and  the  summer  grew  to 


138  PETER'S  MOTHER 

winter,  and  winter  to  summer  again;  and  Peter 
did  not  return,  as  he  might,  with  the  corps  in 
which  he  had  the  honour  to  serve. 

Want  of  energy  was  not  one  of  his  defects ;  he 
was  a  strong,  hardy  young  man,  a  fine  horseman 
and  a  good  shot,  and  eager  to  gain  distinction  for 
himself.  He  passed  into  a  fresh  corps  of  newly 
raised  Yeomanry,  and  went  through  the  Winter 
Campaign  of  1901,  from  April  to  September, 
without  a  scratch.  His  mother  implored  him  to 
come  home ;  but  Peter's  letters  were  contemptuous 
of  danger.  If  he  were  to  be  shot,  plenty  of  better 
fellows  than  he  had  been  done  for,  he  wrote ;  and 
coming  home  to  go  to  Oxford,  or  whatever  his 
guardian  might  be  pleased  to  order  him  to  do,  was 
not  at  all  in  his  line,  when  he  was  really  wanted 
elsewhere. 

To  do  him  justice,  he  had  no  idea  how  boast- 
fully his  letters  read;  he  had  not  the  art  of  ex- 
pressing himself  on  paper,  and  he  was  always  in 
a  hurry.  The  moments  when  he  was  moved  by  a 
vague  affection  for  his  home,  or  his  mother,  were 
seldom  the  actual  moments  which  he  devoted  to 
correspondence;  and  the  passing  ideas  of  the 
moment  were  all  Peter  knew  how  to  convey. 

Lady  Mary  could  not  but  be  aware  of  her  son's 
complete  independence  of  her,  but  the  realization 
of  it  no  longer  filled  her  with  such  dismay  as 
formerly.  Her  outlook  upon  life  was  widening 
insensibly. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  139 

The  young  soldier's  luck  deserted  him  at  last. 
Barely  six  weeks  before  the  declaration  of  peace, 
Peter  was  wounded  at  Rooiwal.  The  War  Office, 
and  the  account  of  the  action  in  the  newspapers, 
reported  his  injuries  as  severe;  but  a  telegram 
from  Peter  himself  brought  relief,  and  even  re- 
joicing, to  Barracombe — 

"  Shot  in  the  arm.  Doing  splendidly.  Invalided 
home.  Sailing  as  soon  as  doctor  allows." 


CHAPTER  X 

"I  NEVER  complain,  Canon  Birch,"  said  Lady 
Belstone,  resignedly ;  "  but  it  is  a  great  relief,  as  I 
cannot  deny,  to  open  my  mind  to  you,  who  know 
so  well  what  this  place  used  to  be  like  in  my  dear 
brother's  time." 

The  canon  had  been  absent  from  Youlestone  on 
a  long  holiday,  and  on  his  return  found  that  the 
workmen,  who  had  reigned  over  Barracombe  for 
nearly  two  years,  had  at  length  departed. 

The  inhabitants  had  been  hunted  from  one  part 
of  the  house  to  another  as  the  work  proceeded; 
but  now  the  usual  living-rooms  had  been  restored 
to  their  occupants,  and  peace  and  order  prevailed, 
where  all  had  been  noise  and  confusion. 

"  I  should  not  have  known  the  place,"  said  the 
canon,  gazing  round  him. 

"  Nor  I.  We  make  a  point  of  saying  nothing," 
said  Miss  Crewys,  pathetically,  "but  it's  almost 
impossible  not  to  look  now  and  then." 

"  Speak  for  yourself,  Georgina,"  said  her  sister, 
with  asperity.  "One  can't  look  furniture  out  of 
one  room  and  into  another." 

The  old  ladies  sat  forlornly  in  their  corner  by 

140 


PETER'S  MOTHER  141 

the  great  open  hearth,  whereon  the  logs  were  piled 
in  readiness  for  a  fire,  because  they  often  found  the 
early  June  evenings  chilly.  But  the  sofa  with 
broken  springs,  which  they  specially  affected,  had 
been  mended,  and  re-covered ;  and  was  no  longer, 
they  sadly  agreed,  near  so  comfortable  as  in  its 
crippled  past. 

The  banqueting-hall,  which  was  the  very  heart 
of  Barracombe  House,  had  been  carefully  and 
skilfully  restored  to  its  ancient  dignity. 

The  paint  and  graining,  which  had  disfigured 
its  mighty  beams  and  solid  panelling,  had  been  re- 
moved ;  and  the  freshly  polished  oak  shone  forth 
in  its  noble  age,  shorn  of  all  tawdry  disguise. 

The  spaces  of  wall  and  roof  between  the  beams, 
and  above  the  panels,  were  now  of  a  creamy  tint 
not  far  removed,  as  the  two  indignant  critics 
pointed  out,  from  common  whitewash.  A  great 
screen  of  Spanish  leather  sheltered  the  door  from 
the  vestibule,  and  secured  somewhat  more  privacy 
for  the  hall  as  a  sitting-room. 

The  Vandyck  commanded  the  staircase,  at- 
tracting immediate  attention,  as  it  faced  the 
principal  entry.  In  the  wide  space  between  the 
two  great  windows  were  two  portraits  of  equal 
size;  the  famous  Sir  Peter  Crewys,  by  Lely, 
painted  to  resemble,  as  nearly  as  possible,  his 
royal  master,  in  dress  and  attitude;  and  his 
brother  Timothy,  by  Kneller. 

Farmer  Timothy's  small,  shrewd,  grey  eyes 


142  PETER'S  MOTHER 

appeared  to  follow  the  gazer  all  over  the  hall ;  and 
his  sober  wearing  apparel,  a  plain  green  coat  with- 
out collar  or  cape,  contrasted  effectively  with  the 
cavalier's  laced  doublet  and  feathered  hat. 

Gone  were  the  Early  Victorian  portraits ;  gone 
the  big  glass  cases  of  stuffed  birds  and  weasels; 
gone  the  round  mahogany  table,  the  waxen  bou- 
quets, and  the  horsehair  chairs.  The  ancient 
tapestry  beside  the  carven  balustrade  of  the  stair- 
case remained,  but  it  had  been  cleaned,  and  even 
mended. 

An  oak  dresser,  black  with  age,  and  laden  with 
blue  and  white  china,  lurked  in  a  shadowy  corner. 
Comfortable  easy-chairs  and  odd,  old-fashioned 
settees  furnished  the  hall.  In  the  oriel  window 
stood  a  spinning-wheel  and  a  grandfather's  chair. 
A  great  bowl  of  roses  stood  on  the  broad  window- 
seat.  There  were  roses,  indeed,  everywhere,  and 
books  on  every  table.  But  the  crowning  griev- 
ance of  all  was  the  cottage  piano  which  John  had 
sent  to  Lady  Mary.  The  case  had  been  specially 
made  of  hand-carven  oak  to  match  the  room  as 
nearly  as  might  be.  It  was  open,  and  beside  it 
was  a  heap  of  music,  and  on  it  another  bowl  of 
roses. 

"Ay,  you  may  well  look  horrified,"  said  Miss 
Crewys  to  the  canon,  whose  admiration  and  de- 
light were  very  plainly  depicted  on  his  rubicund 
countenance.  "Where  are  our  cloaks  and  um- 
brellas? That's  what  I  say  to  Isabella.  Where 


PETER'S  MOTHER  143 

are  our  goloshes?  Where  is  anything,  indeed, 
that  one  would  expect  to  find  in  a  gentleman's 
hall?  Not  so  much  as  a  walking-stick.  Every- 
thing to  be  kept  in  the  outer  hall,  where  tramps 
could  as  easily  step  in  and  help  themselves;  but 
our  poor  foolish  Mary  fancies  that  Peter  will  be 
delighted  to  find  his  old  home  turned  upside 
down." 

"My  belief  is,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  "that 
Peter  will  just  insist  on  all  this  wooden  rubbish 
trotting  back  to  the  attics,  where  my  dear  granny, 
not  being  accustomed  to  wooden  furniture,  very 
properly  hid  it  away.  If  you  will  believe  me, 
canon,  that  dresser  was  brought  up  from  the 
kitchen,  and  every  single  pot  and  pan  that  deco- 
rates it  used  to  be  kept  in  the  housekeeper's  room. 
That  lumbering  old  chest  was  in  the  harness-room. 
Pretty  ornaments  for  a  gentleman's  sitting-room! 
If  Peter  has  grown  up  anything  like  my  poor 
brother,  he  won't  put  up  with  it  at  all." 

"  I  suppose,  in  one  sense,  it's  Peter's  house,  or 
will  be  very  shortly?"  said  the  canon. 

"  In  every  sense  it's  Peter's  house,"  cried  Lady 
Belstone ;  "  and  he  comes  of  age,  thank  Heaven,  in 
October." 

"  I  had  hoped  to  hear  he  had  sailed,"  said  the 
canon.  "No  news  is  good  news,  I  hope." 

"The  last  telegram  said  his  wound  was  doing 
well,  but  did  not  give  any  date  for  his  return. 
Young  John  says  we  may  expect  him  any  time.  I 


144  PETER'S  MOTHER 

do  not  know  what  he  knows  about  it  more  than 
any  one  else,  however,"  said  Miss  Crewys. 

"His  letters  give  no  details  about  himself," 
said  Lady  Belstone ;  "  he  makes  no  fuss  about  his 
wounded  arm.  He  is  a  thorough  Crewys,  not 
given  to  making  a  to-do  about  trifles." 

"  He  could  only  write  a  few  words  with  his  left 
hand,"  said  Miss  Crewys;  "more  could  not  have 
been  expected  of  him.  Yet  poor  Mary  was  quite 
put  out,  as  I  plainly  saw,  though  she  said  nothing, 
because  the  boy  had  not  written  at  greater  length. " 

"  I  find  they've  made  a  good  many  prepara- 
tions for  his  welcome  down  in  the  village,"  said 
the  canon,  "  in  case  he  should  take  us  by  surprise. 
So  many  of  the  officers  have  got  passages  at  the 
last  moment,  unexpectedly.  And  we  shall  turn 
out  to  receive  him  en  masse.  Mr.  Crewys  has  given 
us  carte  blanche  for  fireworks  and  flags ;  and  they 
are  to  have  a  fine  bean-feast." 

"  Our  cousin  John  takes  a  great  deal  upon  him- 
self, and  has  made  uncommonly  free  with  Peter's 
money,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  shaking  her  head. 
"I  wish  he  may  not  find  himself  pretty  nigh 
ruined  when  he  comes  to  look  into  his  own  affairs. 
In  my  opinion,  Fred  Crawley  is  little  better  than 
a  fool." 

"  He  is  most  devoted  to  Peter's  interests,  my 
dear  lady,"  said  the  canon,  warmly,  "and  he 
informed  me  that  Mr.  John  Crewys  had  done 
wonders  in  the  past  two  years." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  145 

"  He  has  turned  the  whole  place  topsy-turvy  in 
two  years,  in  my  opinion,"  said  Miss  Crewys.  "  I 
don't  deny  that  he  is  a  rising  young  man,  and  that 
his  manners  are  very  taking.  But  what  can  a 
Cockney  lawyer  know  about  timber,  pray?" 

"  No  man  on  earth,  lawyer  or  no  lawyer,"  said 
Lady  Belstone,  emphatically,  "will  ever  convince 
me  that  one  can  be  better  than  well." 

"  My  sister  alludes  to  the  drains.  It  is  a  sore 
point,  canon,"  said  Miss  Crewys.  "  In  my  opinion, 
it  is  all  this  modern  drainage  that  sets  up  typhoid 
fever,  and  nothing  else." 

" Bless  me!"  said  the  canon. 

"Our  poor  Mary  has  grown  so  dependent  on 
John,  however,  that  she  will  hear  nothing  against 
him.  One  has  to  mind  one's  p's  and  q's,"  said 
Lady  Belstone. 

"  He  planned  the  alterations  in  this  very  hall," 
said  Miss  Crewys,  "  and  the  only  excuse  he  offered, 
so  far  as  I  could  understand,  was  that  it  would 
amuse  poor  Mary  to  carry  them  out." 

"Does  a  widow  wish  to  be  amused?"  said 
Lady  Belstone,  indignantly. 

"And  was  she  amused,  dear  lady?"  asked  the 
canon,  anxiously. 

"When  she  saw  our  horror  and  dismay  she 
smiled." 

"Did  you  call  that  a  smile,  Georgina?  I 
called  it  a  laugh.  It  takes  almost  nothing  to 
make  her  laugh  nowadays." 


146  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"You  would  not  wish  her  to  be  too  melan- 
choly," said  the  canon,  almost  pleadingly;  "one 
so — so  charming,  so " 

"Canon  Birch,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  in  awful 
tones,  "she  is  a  widow." 

The  canon  was  silent,  displaying  an  embarrass- 
ment which  did  not  escape  the  vigilant  observation 
of  the  sisters,  who  exchanged  a  meaning  glance. 

"Well  may  you  remind  us  of  the  fact,  Isa- 
bella," said  Miss  Crewys,  "for  she  has  discarded 
the  last  semblance  of  mourning." 

"Time  flies  so  fast,"  said  the  canon,  as  though 
impelled  to  defend  the  absent.  "  It  is — getting  on 
for  three  years  since  poor  Sir  Timothy  died." 

"It  is  but  two  years  and  four  months,"  said 
Miss  Crewys. 

"It  is  thirty- three  years  since  the  admiral 
went  aloft,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  who  often  be- 
came slightly  nautical  in  phrase  when  alluding  to 
her  departed  husband;  "and  look  at  me." 

The  pocket-handkerchief  she  held  up  was 
deeply  bordered  with  ink.  Orthodox  streamers 
floated  on  either  side  her  severe  countenance. 

The  canon  looked  and  shook  his  head.  He  felt 
that  the  mysteries  of  a  widow's  garments  had  best 
not  be  discussed  by  one  who  dwelt,  so  to  speak, 
outside  them. 

"Poor  Mary  can  do  nothing  gradually,"  said 
Miss  Crewys.  "  She  leapt  in  a  single  hour  out  of  a 
black  dress  into  a  white  one." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  147 

"Her  anguish  when  our  poor  Timothy  suc- 
cumbed to  that  fatal  operation  surpassed  even 
the  bounds  of  decorum,"  said  Lady  Belstone, 
"and  yet — she  would  not  wear  a  cap!" 

She  appealed  to  the  canon  with  such  a  pathetic 
expression  in  her  small,  red-rimmed,  grey  eyes  that 
he  could  not  answer  lightly. 

They  faced  him  with  anxious  looks  and  droop- 
ing, tremulous  mouths.  They  had  grown  curi- 
ously alike  during  the  close  association  of  nearly 
eighty  years,  though  in  their  far-off  days  of  girl- 
hood no  one  had  thought  them  to  resemble  each 
other. 

Miss  Crewys  crocheted  a  shawl  with  hands 
so  delicately  cared  for  and  preserved,  that  they 
scarce  showed  any  sign  of  her  great  age ;  her  sister 
wore  gloves,  as  was  the  habit  of  both  when  un- 
occupied, and  she  grasped  her  handkerchief  in 
black  kid  fingers  that  trembled  slightly  with 
emotion. 

The  canon  realized  that  the  old  ladies  were 
seriously  troubled  concerning  their  sister-in-law's 
delinquencies. 

"We  speak  to  you,  of  course,  as  our  clergy- 
man," said  Miss  Crewys;  and  the  poor  gentleman 
could  only  bow  sympathetically. 

"I  am  an  old  friend,"  he  said  feelingly,  "and 
your  confidences  are  sacred.  But  I  think  in  your 
very  natural — er — affection  for  Lady  Mary" — 
the  word  stuck  in  his  throat — "you  are,  perhaps, 


148  PETER'S  MOTHER 

over-anxious.  In  judging  those  younger  than 
ourselves,"  said  the  canon,  gallantly  coupling 
himself  with  his  auditors,  though  acutely  con- 
scious that  he  was  some  twenty  years  the  junior 
of  both,  "we  must  not  forget  that  they  recover 
their  spirits,  by  a  merciful  dispensation  of  Provi- 
dence, more  quickly  than  we  should  ourselves  in 
the  like  circumstances,"  said  the  canon,  who  was 
as  light-hearted  a  cleric  as  any  in  England. 

"They  do,  indeed,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  em- 
phatically ;  "  when  they  can  sing  and  play  all  the 
day  and  half  the  night,  like  our  dear  Mary  and 
young  John." 

"You  see  the  piano  blocking  up  the  hall, 
though  Sir  Timothy  hated  music?"  said  Miss 
Crewys. 

Her  own  mourning  was  thoughtfully  graduated 
to  indicate  the  time  which  had  elapsed  since  Sir 
Timothy's  decease.  She  wore  a  violet  silk  of 
sombre  hue,  ornamented  by  a  black  silk  apron  and 
a  black  lace  scarf.  The  velvet  bow  which  served 
so  very  imperfectly  as  a  skull-cap  was  also  vio- 
let, intimating  a  semi-assuaged,  but  respectfully 
lengthened,  grief  for  the  departed. 

"And  now  this  maddest  scheme  of  all,"  said 
Miss  Crewys. 

"  Bless  me !    What  mad  scheme? " 

"  A  house  in  London  is  to  be  hired  as  soon  as 
Peter  conies  home." 

"  Is  that  all?    But  surely  that  is  very  natural. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  149 

For  my  part,  I  have  often  wondered  why  none  of 
you  ever  cared  to  go  to  London,  if  only  for  your 
shopping.  I  am  very  fond  of  a  trip  to  town  my- 
self, now  and  then,  for  a  few  days." 

"A  few  days,  it  seems,  would  not  suffice  our 
cousin  John's  notions.  He  is  pleased  to  think 
Peter  may  require  skilled  medical  attendance; 
and,  since  he  wrote  he  was  in  rags,  a  new  outfit. 
These,  it  seems,  can  only  be  obtained  in  the 
Metropolis  nowadays.  My  brother's  tailor  still 
lives  in  Exeter;  and  with  all  his  faults — and 
nobody  can  dislike  him  more  than  I  do — I  have 
never  heard  it  denied  that  Dr.  Blundell  is  a  skilful 
apothecary." 

"  Very  skilful,"  added  Miss  Crewys.  "  You  re- 
member, Isabella,  how  quickly  he  put  your  poor 
little  Fido  out  of  his  agony." 

"That  is  nothing;  all  doctors  understand 
animals'  illnesses.  They  kill  numbers  of  guinea- 
pigs  before  they  are  allowed  to  try  their  hands  on 
human  beings,"  said  Lady  Belstone.  "  The  point 
is,  that  if  my  poor  brother  Timothy  had  not  been 
mad  enough  to  go  to  London,  he  would  have  been 
alive  at  this  moment.  I  have  never  heard  of  Dr. 
Blundell  finding  it  necessary — much  as  I  detest 
the  man — to  perform  an  operation  on  anybody." 

"Apart  from  this  painful  subject,  my  dear 
lady,"  murmured  the  canon,  "I  presume  it  is 
only  a  furnished  house  that  Lady  Mary  con- 
templates?" 


150  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"During  all  the  years  of  his  married  life  Sir 
Timothy  never  hired  a  furnished  house,"  said 
Miss  Crewys.  "  The  home  of  his  fathers  sufficed 
him." 

"She  may  want  a  change?"  suggested  the 
canon. 

Miss  Crewys  interpreted  him  literally.  "No; 
she  is  in  the  best  of  health." 

"  Better  than  I  have  ever  seen  her,  and — and 
gayer"  said  Lady  Belstone,  with  emphasis. 

"  People  who  are  gay  and  bright  in  disposition 
are  the  very  ones  who — who  pine  for  a  little  ex- 
citement at  times,"  said  the  courageous  canon. 
"  There  is  so  much  to  be  seen  and  done  and  heard 
in  London.  For  instance,  as  you  say — she  is 
passionately  fond  of  music." 

"  She  gets  plenty.  We  get  more  than  enough, " 
said  Miss  Crewys,  grimly. 

"I  mean  good  music;"  then  he  recollected 
himself  in  alarm.  "  No,  no ;  I  don't  mean  hers  is 
not  charming,  and  Mr.  John's  playing  is  delightful, 
but- 

"  There  is  an  organ  in  the  parish  church,"  said 
Miss  Crewys,  crocheting  more  busily  than  ever. 
"  I  have  heard  no  complaints  of  the  choir.  Have 
you?" 

"No,  no;  but — besides  music,  there  are  so 
many  other  things,"  he  said  dismally.  "  She  likes 
pictures,  too." 

"It  does  not  look  like  it,  canon,"  said  Lady 


PETER'S  MOTHER  151 

Belstone,  sorrowfully.  She  waved  her  handker- 
chief towards  the  panelled  walls.  "She  has  re- 
moved the  family  portraits  to  the  lumber-room." 

"  At  least  the  Vandyck  has  never  been  seen  to 
greater  advantage,"  said  the  canon,  hopefully; 
"  and  I  hear  the  gallery  upstairs  has  been  restored 
and  supported,  to  render  it  safe  to  walk  upon, 
which  will  enable  you  to  take  pleasure  in  the  fine 
pictures  there." 

"  I  am  sadly  afraid  that  it  is  not  pictures  that 
poor  Mary  hankers  after,  but  theatres,"  said  Miss 
Crewys.  "John  has  persuaded  her,  if  persuasion 
was  needed,  which  I  take  leave  to  doubt,  that  there 
is  nothing  improper  in  visiting  such  places.  My 
dear  brother  thought  otherwise." 

"You  know  I  do  not  share  your  opinions  on 
that  point,"  said  the  canon.  "Though  not  much 
of  a  theatre-goer  myself,  still " 

"A  widow  at  the  theatre!"  said  Lady  Bel- 
stone.  "Even  in  the  admiral's  lifetime  I  did  not 
go.  Being  a  sailor,  and  not  a  clergyman,"  she 
added  sternly,  "he  frequented  such  places  of 
amusement.  But  he  said  he  could  not  have 
enjoyed  a  ballet  properly  with  me  looking  on. 
His  feelings  were  singularly  delicate." 

"  I  am  afraid  people  must  be  talking  about 
dear  Mary  a  good  deal,  canon,"  said  Miss  Crewys, 
whisking  a  ball  of  wool  from  the  floor  to  her  knee 
with  much  dexterity. 

Her  keen  eyes  gleamed  at  her  visitor  through 


152  PETER'S  MOTHER 

her  spectacles,  though  her  fingers  never  stopped 
for  a  moment. 

"  I  hope  not.     I've  heard  nothing." 

"My  experience  of  men,"  said  Lady  Belstone, 
"is  that  they  never  do  hear  anything.  But  a 
widow  cannot  be  too  cautious  in  her  behaviour. 
All  eyes  are  fixed,  I  know  not  why,  upon  a  widow," 
she  added  modestly. 

"  We  do  our  best  to  guard  dear  Mary's  reputa- 
tion," said  Miss  Crewys. 

The  impetuous  canon  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a 
half -uttered  exclamation ;  then  recollecting  the  age. 
and  temperament  of  the  speaker,  he  checked  him- 
self and  tried  to  laugh. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  "who  has  said,  or  ever 
could  say,  one  single  word  against  that — against 
our  dear  and  sweet  Lady  Mary.  But  if  there 
is  any  one,  I  can  only  say  that  such  word  had 
better  not  be  uttered  in  my  presence,  that's  all." 

"Dear  me,  Canon  Birch,  you  excite  yourself 
very  unnecessarily,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  with 
assumed  surprise.  "You  are  just  confirming  our 
suspicions." 

"  What  suspicions? "  almost  shouted  the  canon. 

"That  our  dear  Lady  Mary's  extraordinary 
partiality  for  our  cousin  John  has  not  escaped 
the  observation  of  a  censorious  world." 

"  Though  we  have  done  our  best  never  to  leave 
him  alone  with  her  for  a  single  moment,"  inter- 
polated Miss  Crewys. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  153 

The  canon  turned  rather  pale.  "  There  can  be 
no  question  of  censure,"  he  said.  "Lady  Mary 
is  a  very  charming  and  beautiful  woman.  Who 
could  dare  to  blame  her  if  she  contemplated  such 
a  step  as — as  a  second  marriage?" 

"A  second  marriage!  We  said  nothing  of  a 
second  marriage,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  sharply. 
"You  go  a  great  deal  too  fast,  canon.  Luckily, 
our  poor  Mary  is  debarred  from  any  such  act  of 
folly.  I  have  no  patience  with  widows  who  re- 
marry." 

" Debarred  from  a  second  marriage!" 

"Is  it  possible  you  don't  know?" 

The  sisters  exchanged  meaning  glances. 

He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  bewilder- 
ment. 

"If  our  sister-in-law  remarries,"  said  Miss 
Crewys,  "she  forfeits  the  whole  of  her  jointure." 

"Is  that  all?"  he  cried. 

"Is  that  all!"  echoed  Miss  Crewys,  much 
offended.  "It  is  no  less  than  two  thousand  a 
year.  In  my  opinion,  far  too  heavy  a  charge  on 
poor  Peter's  estate." 

"No  man  with  any  self-respect,"  said  Lady 
Belstone,  "  would  desire  to  marry  a  widow  without 
a  jointure.  I  should  have  formed  a  low  opinion, 
indeed,  of  any  gentleman  who  asked  me  to  marry 
him  without  first  making  sure  that  the  admiral  had 
provided  for  me  as  he  ought,  and  as  he  has." 

The  canon,  though  mentally  echoing  the  senti- 


154  PETER'S  MOTHER 

ment  with  much  warmth,  thought  it  wiser  to 
change  the  topic  of  conversation.  Experience 
had  taught  him  to  discredit  most  of  the  assump- 
tions of  Lady  Mary's  sisters-in-law,  where  she  was 
concerned,  and  he  rose  in  hope  of  effecting  his 
escape  without  further  ado. 

"  I  believe  I  am  to  meet  Mr.  Crewys  at  lunch- 
eon," he  said,  "and  with  your  permission  I  will 
stroll  out  into  the  grounds,  and  look  him  up.  He 
told  me  where  he  was  to  be  found." 

"  He  is  to  be  found  all  over  the  place.  He 
seizes  every  opportunity  of  coming  down  here. 
I  cannot  believe  in  his  making  so  much  money  in 
London,  when  he  manages  to  get  away  so  often. 
As  for  Mary,  you  know  her  way  of  inviting  people 
to  lunch,  and  then  going  out  for  a  walk,  or  up  to 
her  room,  as  likely  as  not.  But  I  suppose  she  will 
be  down  directly,  if  you  like  to  wait  here,"  said 
Lady  Belstone,  who  had  plenty  more  to  say. 

"  I  should  be  glad  of  a  turn  before  luncheon," 
said  the  canon,  who  had  no  mind  to  hear  it.  "  And 
there  is  an  hour  and  a  half  yet.  You  lunch  at  two  ? 
I  came  straight  from  the  school-house,  as  Lady 
Mary  suggested.  I  wanted  to  have  a  look  at  the 
improvements . ' ' 

"Sarah  Hewel  is  coming  to  lunch,"  said  Miss 
Crewys.  "  I  cannot  say  we  approve  of  her,  since 
she  has  been  out  so  much  in  London,  and  become 
such  a  notorious  young  person." 

"  It's  very  odd  to  me,"  said  the  canon,  benevo- 


PETER'S  MOTHER  155 

lently,  "  little  Sarah  growing  up  into  a  fashionable 
beauty.  I  often  see  her  name  in  the  papers." 

"She  is  exactly  the  kind  of  person  to  attract 
our  cousin  John,  who  is  quite  foolish  about  her 
red  hair.  In  my  young  days,  red  hair  was  just 
a  misfortune  like  any  other,"  said  Miss  Crewys. 
"  Dr.  Blundell  is  lunching  here  also,  I  need  hardly 
say.  Since  my  dear  brother's  death  we  keep 
open  house." 

"  It  used  not  to  be  the  fashion  to  encourage 
country  doctors  to  be  tame  cats,"  said  Lady  Bel- 
stone,  viciously;  "but  he  pretends  to  like  the 
innovations,  and  gets  round  young  John;  and 
inquires  after  Peter,  and  pleases  Mary." 

"Ay,  ay;  it  will  be  a  great  moment  for  her 
when  the  boy  comes  back.  A  great  moment  for 
you  all,"  said  the  canon,  absently. 

He  stood  with  his  back  to  the  tall  leather  screen 
which  guarded  the  entrance  to  the  hall,  and  did 
not  hear  the  gentle  opening  of  the  great  door. 

"  I  trust,"  said  Miss  Crewys,  "  that  we  are  not  a 
family  prone  to  display  weak  emotion  even  on  the 
most  trying  occasions." 

"  To  be  sure  not,"  said  the  canon,  disconcerted ; 
"  still,  I  cannot  think  of  it  myself  without  a  little — 
a  great  deal — of  thankfulness  for  his  preservation 
through  this  terrible  war,  now  so  happily  ended. 
And  to  think  the  boy  should  have  earned  so  much 
distinction  for  himself,  and  behaved  so  gallantly. 
God  bless  the  lad!  You  are  well  aware,"  said  the 


156  PETER'S  MOTHER 

canon,  blowing  his  nose,  "  that  I  have  always  been 
fond  of  Peter." 

"Thank  you,  canon,"  said  Peter. 

For  a  moment  no  one  was  sure  that  it  was 
Peter,  who  had  come  so  quietly  round  the  great 
screen  and  into  the  hall,  though  he  stood  some- 
what in  the  shadow  still. 

A  young  man,  looking  older  than  his  age,  and 
several  inches  taller  than  Peter  had  been  when  he 
went  away ;  a  young  man  deeply  tanned,  and  very 
wiry  and  thin  in  figure ;  with  a  brown,  narrow  face, 
a  dark  streak  of  moustache,  a  long  nose,  and  a  pair 
of  grey  eyes  rendered  unfamiliar  by  an  eyeglass, 
which  was  an  ornament  Peter  had  not  worn  before 
his  departure. 

The  old  ladies  sat  motionless,  trembling  with 
the  shock;  but  the  canon  seized  the  hand  which 
Peter  held  out,  and,  scarcely  noticing  that  it  was 
his  left  hand,  shook  it  almost  madly  in  both  his 
own. 

"Peter!  good  heavens,  Peter!"  he  cried,  and 
the  tears  ran  unheeded  down  his  plump,  rosy 
cheeks.  "Peter,  my  boy,  God  bless  you!  Wel- 
come home  a  thousand  thousand  times!" 

"Peter!"  gasped  Lady  Belstone.  "Is  it  pos- 
sible?" 

"Why,  he's  grown  into  a  man,"  said  Miss 
Crewys,  showing  symptoms  of  an  inclination  to 
become  hysterical. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  157 

Peter  was  aghast  at  the  commotion,  and  came 
hurriedly  forward  to  soothe  his  agitated 
relatives. 

"Is  this  your  boasted  self-command,  Geor- 
gina?  "  said  Lady  Belstone,  weeping. 

"We  cannot  always  be  consistent,  Isabella. 
It  was  the  unexpected  joy,"  sobbed  Miss  Crewys. 

"Peter!  your  arm!"  screamed  Lady  Belstone 
and  she  fell  back  almost  fainting  upon  the  sofa. 

Peter  stood  full  in  the  light  now,  and  they  saw 
that  he  had  lost  his  right  arm.  The  empty  sleeve 
was  pinned  to  his  breast. 

His  aunt  tottered  towards  him.  "My  poor 
boy!"  she  sobbed. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Peter,  in  rather 
annoyed  tones.  "  I  can  use  my  left  hand  perfectly 
well.  I  hardly  notice  it  now." 

Something  in  the  tone  of  this  speech  caused  his 
aunts  to  exclaim  simultaneously — 

" Dear  boy,  he  has  not  changed  one  bit!" 

"You  never  told  us,  Peter,"  said  the  canon, 
huskily. 

"  I  didn't  want  a  fuss,"  Peter  said,  very  simply, 
"  so  I  just  got  the  newspaper  chap  to  cork  it  down 
about  my  being  shot  in  the  arm,  without  any 
details.  It  had  to  be  amputated  first  thing,  as  a 
matter  of  fact." 

"It  has  given  your  aunt  Georgina  and  me  a 
terrible  shock,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  faintly. 

"You  can't  expect  a  fellow  who   has  been 


158  PETER'S  MOTHER 

invalided  home  to  turn  up  without  a  single 
scratch,"  said  Peter,  in  rather  surly  tones. 

"How  like  his  father!"  said  Miss  Crewys. 

"Besides,  you  know  very  well  my  mother 
would  have  tormented  herself  to  death  if  I  had 
told  her,"  said  Peter.  "I  want  her  to  see  with 
her  own  eyes  how  perfectly  all  right  I  am  before 
she  knows  anything  about  it." 

"  It  was  a  noble  thought,"  said  the  canon. 

"Where  is  she?"  demanded  Peter. 

He  seemed  about  to  cross  the  hall  to  the  stair- 
case but  the  canon  detained  him. 

" Oughtn't  some  one  to  prepare  her?" 

"Oh,  joy  never  kills,"  said  Peter.  "She's 
quite  well,  isn't  she?" 

"Quite  well." 

"Very  well  indeed"  said  Miss  Crewys,  with 
emphasis  that  seemed  to  imply  Lady  Mary  was 
better  than  she  had  any  need  to  be. 

"I  have  never,"  said  the  canon,  with  a 
nervous  side-glance  at  Peter,  "seen  her  look  so 
well,  nor  so — so  lovely,  nor  so — so  brilliant.  Only 
your  return  was  needed  to  complete — her  happi- 
ness." 

Peter  looked  at  the  canon  through  his  newly 
acquired  eyeglass  with  some  slight  surprise. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  wouldn't  telegraph.  I 
wanted  to  slip  home  quietly,  that's  the  fact ;  or  I 
knew  the  place  would  be  turned  upside  down  to 
receive  me." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  159 

"  The  people  are  preparing  a  royal  welcome  for 
you,"  said  the  canon,  warmly.  "  Banners,  music, 
processions,  addresses,  and  I  don't  know  what." 

"That's  awful  rot!"  said  Peter.  "Tell  them 
I  hate  banners  and  music  and  addresses,  and 
everything  of  the  kind." 

"No,  no,  my  dear  boy,"  said  the  canon,  in 
rather  distressed  tones.  "  Don't  say  that,  Peter, 
pray.  You  must  think  of  their  feelings,  you  know. 
There's  hardly  one  of  them  who  hasn't  sent  some- 
body to  the  war;  son  or  brother  or  sweetheart. 
And  all  that's  left  for — for  those  who  stay  behind 
— not  always  the  least  hard  thing  to  do  for  a 
patriot,  Peter — is  to  honour,  as  far  as  they  can, 
each  one  who  returns.  They  work  off  some  of 
their  accumulated  feelings  that  way,  you  know; 
and  in  their  rejoicings  they  do  not  forget  those 
who,  alas!  will  never  return  any  more." 

There  was  a  pause ;  and  Peter  remained  silent, 
embarrassed  by  the  canon's  emotion,  and  not 
knowing  very  well  how  to  reply. 

"  There,  there,"  said  the  canon,  saving  him  the 
trouble ;  "  we  can  discuss  it  later.  You  are  think- 
ing of  your  mother  now." 

As  he  spoke,  they  all  heard  Lady  Mary's  voice 
in  the  corridor  above.  She  was  humming  a  song, 
and  as  she  neared  the  open  staircase  the  words  of 
her  song  came  very  distinctly  to  their  ears — 

Entends  tu  ma  penste  qui  te  rtpond  tout  basf 

Ton  doux  chant  me  rappelle  les  plus  beaux  de  mes  jours. 


160  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  My  mother's  voice,"  said  Peter,  in  bewildered 
accents;  and  he  dropped  his  eyeglass. 

The  canon  showed  a  presence  of  mind  that 
seldom  distinguished  him. 

He  hurried  away  the  old  ladies,  protesting,  into 
the  drawing-room,  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

Peter  scarcely  noticed  their  absence. 

Ah!  le  rire  fiddle  prouve  un  cceur  sans  detours, 
Ah!  riez,  riez — ma  belle — riez,  riez  toujours, 

sang  Lady  Mary. 

"  I  never  heard  my  mother  sing  before,"  said 
Peter. 


CHAPTER  XI 

LADY  MARY  came  down  the  oak  staircase  singing. 
The  white  draperies  of  her  summer  gown  trailed 
softly  on  the  wide  steps,  and  in  her  hands  she 
carried  a  quantity  of  roses.  A  black  ribbon  was 
bound  about  her  waist,  and  seemed  only  to 
emphasize  the  slenderness  of  her  form.  Her 
brown  hair  was  waved  loosely  above  her  brow; 
it  was  not  much  less  abundant,  though  much  less 
bright,  than  in  her  girlhood.  The  freshness  of 
youth  had  gone  for  ever;  but  her  loveliness  had 
depended  less  upon  that  radiant  colouring  which 
had  once  been  hers  than  upon  her  clear-cut 
features,  and  exquisitely  shaped  head  and  throat. 
Her  blue  eyes  looked  forth  from  a  face  white  and 
delicate  as  a  shell  cameo,  beneath  finely  pencilled 
brows;  but  they  shone  now  with  a  new  hopeful- 
ness— a  timid  expectancy  of  happiness ;  they  were 
no  longer  pensive  and  downcast  as  Peter  had 
known  them  best. 

The  future  had  been  shrouded  by  a  heavy  mist 
of  hopelessness  always — for  Lady  Mary.  But  the 
fog  had  lifted,  and  a  fair  landscape  lay  before  her. 
Not  bright,  alas!  with  the  brightness  and  the 

«  161 


162  PETER'S  MOTHER 

promise  of  the  morning- time ;  but  yet — there  are 
sunny  afternoons;  and  the  landscape  was  bright 
still,  though  long  shadows  from  the  past  fell 
across  it. 

Peter  saw  only  that  his  mother,  for  some  extra- 
ordinary reason,  looked  many  years  younger  than 
when  he  had  left  her,  and  that  she  had  exchanged 
her  customary  dull,  old-fashioned  garb  for  a 
beautiful  and  becoming  dress.  He  gave  an  invol- 
untary start,  and  immediately  she  perceived  him. 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him  with  a  cry 
that  rang  through  the  rafters  of  the  hall.  The 
roses  were  scattered. 

"  My  boy!     O  God,  my  darling  boy! " 

In  the  space  of  a  flash — a  second — Lady  Mary 
had  seen  and  understood.  Her  arms  were  round 
him,  and  her  face  hidden  upon  his  empty  sleeve. 
She  was  as  still  as  death.  Peter  stooped  his  head 
and  laid  his  cheek  against  her  hair ;  he  felt  for  one 
fleeting  moment  that  he  had  never  known  before 
how  much  he  loved  his  mother. 

"Forgive  me  for  keeping  it  dark,  mother,"  he 
whispered  presently;  "but  I  knew  you'd  think  I 
was  dying,  or  something,  if  I  told  you.  It  had  to 
be  done,  and  I  don't  care — much — now;  one  gets 
used  to  anything.  My  aunts  nearly  had  a  fit 
when  I  came  in ;  but  I  knew  you' d  be  too  thankful 
to  get  me  home  safe  and  sound,  to  make  a  fuss 
over  what  can't  be  helped.  It's — it's  just  the 
fortune  of  war." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  163 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  meet  the  man  who  did  it!"  she 
cried,  with  fire  in  her  blue  eyes. 

"  It  wasn't  a  man;  it  was  a  gun,"  said  Peter. 
"  Let's  forget  it.  I  say — doesn't  it  feel  rummy  to 
be  at  home  again?" 

"  But  you  have  come  back  a  man,  Peter.  Not 
a  boy  at  all,"  said  Lady  Mary,  laughing  through 
her  tears.  "Do  let  me  look  at  you.  You  must 
be  six  feet  three,  surely." 

"  Barely  six  feet  one  in  my  boots,"  said  Peter, 
reprovingly. 

"And  you  have  a  moustache — more  or  less." 

"Of  course  I  have  a  moustache,"  said  Peter, 
gravely  stroking  it.  He  me.chanically  replaced 
his  eyeglass. 

Lady  Mary  laughed  till  she  cried. 

"Do  forgive  me,  darling.  But  oh,  Peter,  it 
seems  so  strange.  My  boy  grown  into  a  tall 
gentleman  with  an  eyeglass.  Nothing  has  hap- 
pened to  your  eye?"  she  cried,  in  sudden  anxiety. 

"  No,  no ;  I  am  just  a  little  short-sighted,  that 
is  all,"  he  mumbled,  rather  awkwardly. 

He  found  it  difficult  to  explain  that  he  had 
travelled  home  with  a  distinguished  man  who  had 
captivated  his  youthful  fancy,  and  caused  him  to 
fall  into  a  fit  of  hero-worship,  and  to  imitate  his 
idol  as  closely  as  possible.  Hence  the  eyeglass, 
and  a  few  harmless  mannerisms  which  temporarily 
distinguished  Peter,  and  astonished  his  previous 
acquaintance. 


164  PETER'S  MOTHER 

But  there  was  something  else  in  Peter's  man- 
ner, too,  for  the  moment.  A  new  tenderness, 
which  peeped  through  his  old  armour  of  sulky  in- 
difference ;  the  chill  armour  of  his  boyhood,  which 
had  grown  something  too  strait  and  narrow  for 
him  even  now,  and  from  which  he  would  doubt- 
less presently  emerge  altogether — but  not  yet. 

Though  Lady  Mary  laughed,  she  was  trembling 
and  shaken  with  emotion.  Peter  came  to  the 
sofa  and  knelt  beside  her  there,  and  she  took  his 
hand  in  both  hers,  and  laid  her  face  upon  it,  and 
they  were  very  still  for  a  few  moments. 

"Mother  dear,"  said  Peter  presently,  without 
looking  at  her,  "coming  home  like  this,  and  not 
finding  my  father  here,  makes  me  realize  for  the 
first  time — though  it's  all  so  long  ago — what's 
happened." 

"My  poor  boy!" 

"  Poor  mother!  You  must  have  been  terribly 
lonely  all  this  time  I  Ve  been  away." 

"I've  longed  for  your  return,  my  darling," 
said  Lady  Mary. 

Her  tone  was  embarrassed,  but  Peter  did  not 
notice  that. 

"  You  see — I  went  away  a  boy,  but  I've  come 
back  a  man,  as  you  said  just  now,"  said  Peter. 

"  You're  still  very  young,  my  darling — not  one- 
and- twenty,"  she  said  fondly. 

"I'm  older  than  my  age ;  and  I've  been  through 
a  lot;  more  than  you'd  think,  all  this  time  I've 


PETER'S  MOTHER  165 

been  away.  I  dare  say  it  hasn't  seemed  so  long 
to  you,  who've  had  no  experiences  to  go  through," 
he  said  simply. 

She  kissed  him  silently. 

"Now  just  listen,  mother  dear,"  said  Peter, 
firmly.  "  I  made  up  my  mind  to  say  something  to 
you  the  very  first  minute  I  saw  you,  and  it's  got 
to  be  said.  I'm  sorry  I  used  to  be  such  a  beast 
to  you — there." 

"Oh,  Peter!" 

"I  dare  say,"  said  Peter,  "that  it's  all  this 
rough  time  in  South  Africa  that's  made  me  feel 
what  a  fool  I  used  to  make  of  myself,  when  I  was 
a  discontented  ass  of  a  boy ;  that,  or  being  ill,  or 
something,  used  to — make  one  think  a  bit.  And 
that's  why  I  made  up  my  mind  to  tell  you.  I 
know  I  used  to  disappoint  you  horribly,  and  be 
bored  by  your  devotion,  and  all  that.  But  you'll 
see,"  said  Peter,  decidedly,  "that  I  mean  to  be 
different  now ;  and  you'll  forgive  me,  won't  you? " 

"My  darling,  I  forgave  you  long  ago — if  there 
was  anything  to  forgive,"  she  cried, 

"You  know  there  was,"  said  Peter;  and  he 
sounded  like  the  boy  Peter  again,  now  that  she 
could  not  see  his  face.  "Well,  my  soldiering's 
done  for."  A  faint  note  of  regret  sounded  in 
his  voice.  "  I  had  a  good  bout,  so  I  suppose  I 
oughtn't  to  complain;  but  I  had  hoped — how- 
ever, it's  all  for  the  best.  And  there's  no  doubt," 
said  Peter,  "that  my  duty  lies  here  now.  In  a 


166  PETER'S  MOTHER 

very  few  months  I  shall  be  my  own  master,  and  I 
mean  to  keep  everything  going  here  exactly  as  it 
was  in  my  father's  time.  You  shall  devote  your- 
self to  me,  and  I'll  devote  myself  to  Barracombe ; 
and  we'll  just  settle  down  into  all  the  old  ways. 
Only  it  will  be  me  instead  of  my  father — that's 
all." 

"You  instead  of  your  father — that's  all," 
echoed  Lady  Mary.  She  felt  as  though  her  mind 
had  suddenly  become  a  blank. 

"I  used  to  rebel  against  poor  papa,"  said 
Peter,  remorsefully.  "  But  now  I  look  back,  I 
know  he  was  just  the  kind  of  man  I  should  like  to 
be." 

She  kissed  his  hand  in  silence.  Her  face  was 
hidden. 

"  I  want  you — and  my  aunts,  to  feel  that, 
though  I  am  young  and  inexperienced,  and  all 
that,"  said  Peter,  tenderly,  "there  are  to  be  no 
changes." 

"  But,  Peter,"  said  his  mother,  rather  tremu- 
lously, "  there  are — sure  to  be — changes.  You  will 
want  to  marry,  sooner  or  later.  In  your  position, 
you  are  almost  bound  to  marry." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Peter.  He  released  his 
hand  gently,  in  order  to  stroke  the  cherished 
moustache.  "  But  I  shall  put  off  the  evil  day  as 
long  as  possible,  like  my  father  did." 

"  I  see,"  said  Lady  Mary.     She  smiled  faintly. 

"And  when  it  does  arrive,"  said  Peter,  "my 


PETER'S  MOTHER  167 

wife  will  just  have  to  understand  that  she  comes 
second.  I've  no  notion  of  being  led  by  the  nose 
by  any  woman,  particularly  a  young  woman. 
I'm  sure  my  father  never  dreamt  of  putting  his 
sisters  on  one  side,  or  turning  them  out  of  their 
place,  when  he  married  you,  did  he?" 

"Never,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"Of  course  they  were  snappish  at  times.  I 
suppose  all  old  people  get  like  that.  But,  on  the 
whole,  you  managed  to  jog  along  pretty  comfort- 
ably, didn't  you?" 

"  Oh  yes, ' '  said  Lady  Mary.  "  We  jogged  along 
pretty  comfortably." 

"Then  don't  you  see  how  snug  we  shall  be?" 
said  Peter,  triumphantly.  "  I  can  tell  you  a  fel- 
low learns  to  appreciate  home  when  he  has  been 
without  one,  so  to  speak,  for  over  two  years.  And 
home  wouldn't  be  home  without  you,  mother 
dear." 

Lady  Mary  sank  suddenly  back  among  the 
cushions.  Her  feelings  were  divided  between 
dismay  and  self-reproach.  Yet  she  was  faintly 
amused  too — amused  at  Peter  and  herself.  Her 
boy  had  returned  to  her  with  sentiments  that 
were  surely  all  that  a  mother  could  desire;  and 
yet — yet  she  felt  instinctively  that  Peter  was 
Peter  still ;  that  his  thoughts  were  not  her 
thoughts,  nor  his  ways  her  ways.  Then  the  self- 
reproach  began  to  predominate  in  Lady  Mary's 
mind.  How  could  she  criticize  her  boy,  her 


168  PETER'S  MOTHER 

darling,  who  had  proved  himself  a  son  to  be  proud 
of,  and  who  had  come  back  to  her  with  a  heart 
so  full  of  love  and  loyalty? 

"And  you  couldn't  live  without  me,  could 
you?"  said  Peter,  affectionately;  and  he  laughed. 
"  I  suppose  you  meant  to  go  into  that  little, 
damp,  tumble-down  Dower  House,  and  watch 
over  me  from  there;  now  didn't  you,  mummy?" 

"I — I  thought,  when  you  came  of  age,"  fal- 
tered Lady  Mary,  "that  I  should  give  up  Barra- 
combe  House  to  you,  naturally.  I  could  come 
and  stay  with  you  sometimes — whether  you  were 
married  or  not,  you  know.  And — and,  of  course, 
the  Dower  House  does  belong  to  me." 

"  I  won't  hear  of  your  going  there,"  said  Peter, 
stoutly,  "whether  I'm  married  or  not.  It's  a 
beastly  place." 

"It's  very  picturesque,"  said  Lady  Mary, 
guiltily ;  "  and  I — I  wasn't  thinking  of  living  there 
all  the  year  round." 

"Why,  where  on  earth  else  could  you  have 
gone? "  he  demanded,  regarding  her  with  astonish- 
ment through  the  eyeglass. 

"There  are  several  places — London,"  she  fal- 
tered. 

"London!"  said  Peter;  "but  my  father  had 
a  perfect  horror  of  London.  He  wouldn't  have 
liked  it  at  all." 

"He  belonged — to  the  old  school,"  said  Lady 
Mary,  meekly;  "to  younger  people,  perhaps — an 


PETER'S  MOTHER  169 

occasional  change  might  be  pleasant  and  profit- 
able." 

"Oh!  to  younger  people,"  said  Peter,  in  molli- 
fied tones.  "  I  don't  say  I  shall  never  run  up  to 
London.  I  dare  say  I  shall  be  obliged,  now  and 
then,  on  business.  Not  often  though.  I  hate 
absentee  landlords,  as  my  father  did." 

"Travelling  is  said  to  open  the  mind,"  mur- 
mured Lady  Mary,  weakly  pursuing  her  argument, 
as  she  supposed  it  to  be. 

"I've  seen  enough  of  the  world  now  to  last  me 
a  lifetime,"  said  Peter,  in  sublime  unconsciousness 
that  any  fate  but  his  own  could  be  in  question. 

"I  didn't  think  you  would  have  changed  so 
much  as  this,  Peter,"  she  said,  rather  dismally. 
"You  used  to  find  this  place  so  dull." 

"I  know  I  used,"  Peter  agreed;  "but  oh, 
mother,  if  you  knew  how  sick  I've  been  now  and 
then  with  longing  to  get  back  to  it!  I  made  up 
my  mind  a  thousand  times  how  it  should  all  be 
when  I  came  home  again;  and  that  you  and  me 
would  be  everything  in  the  world  to  each  other, 
as  you  used  to  wish  when  I  was  a  selfish  boy, 
thinking  only  of  getting  away  and  being  inde- 
pendent. I'm  afraid  I  used  to  be  rather  selfish, 
mother?" 

"  Perhaps  you  were — a  little,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"You  will  never  have  to  complain  of  that 
again,"  said  Peter. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  faint,  pathetic  smile. 


170  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  I  shall  take  care  of  you,  and  look  after  you, 
just  as  my  father  used  to  do,"  said  Peter.  "  Now 
you  rest  quietly  here" — and  he  gently  laid  her 
down  among  the  cushions  on  the  sofa — "  whilst  I 
take  a  look  round  the  old  place." 

"Let  me  come  with  you,  darling." 

"Good  heavens,  no!  I  should  tire  you  to 
death.  My  father  never  liked  you  to  go  climbing 
about." 

"  I  am  much  more  active  than  I  used  to  be," 
said  Lady  Mary. 

"No,  no;  you  must  lie  down,  you  look  quite 
pale."  Peter's  voice  took  an  authoritative  note, 
which  came  very  naturally  to  him.  "  The  sudden 
joy  of  my  return  has  been  too  much  for  you,  poor 
old  mum." 

He  leant  over  her  fondly,  and  kissed  the  sweet, 
pale  face,  and  then  regarded  her  in  a  curious, 
doubtful  manner. 

"You're  changed,  mother.  I  can't  think 
what  it  is.  Isn't  your  hair  done  differently — or 
•something?" 

Poor  Lady  Mary  lifted  both  hands  to  her  head, 
and  looked  at  him  with  something  like  alarm  in 
her  blue  eyes. 

"  Is  it?  Perhaps  it  is,"  she  faltered.  "  Don't 
you  like  it,  Peter?" 

"  I  like  the  old  way  best,"  said  Peter. 

"But  this  is  so  much  more  becoming,  Peter." 

"A  fellow  doesn't  care,"  said  Peter,  loftily. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  171 

"whether  his  mother's  hair  is  becoming  or  not. 
He  likes  to  see  her  always  the  same  as  when  he 
was  a  little  chap." 

"  It  is — sweet  of  you,  to  have  such  a  thought," 
murmured  Lady  Mary.  She  took  her  courage  in 
both  hands.  "  But  the  other  way  is  out  of  fashion, 
Peter." 

"Why,  mother,  you  never  used  to  follow  the 
fashions  before  I  went  away;  you  won't  begin 
now,  at  your  age,  will  you?" 

"At  my  age,"  repeated  Lady  Mary,  blankly. 
Then  she  looked  at  him  with  that  wondering, 
pathetic  smile,  which  seemed  to  have  replaced 
already,  since  Peter  came  home,  the  joyousness 
which  had  timidly  stolen  back  from  her  vanished 
youth.  "At  my  age!"  said  Lady  Mary;  "you 
are  not  very  complimentary,  Peter." 

"You  don't  expect  a  fellow  to  pay  compli- 
ments to  his  mother,"  said  Peter,  staring  at  her. 
"Why,  mother,  what  has  come  to  you?  And  be- 
sides  " 

"Besides?" 

"I'm  sure  papa  hated  compliments,  and  all 
that  sort  of  rot,"  Peter  blurted  out,  in  boyish 
fashion.  "  Don't  you  remember  how  fond  he  was 
of  quoting,  ' Praise  to  the  face  is  open  disgrace'?" 

The  late  Sir  Timothy,  like  many  middle-class 
people,  had  taken  a  compliment  almost  as  a  per- 
sonal offence ;  and  regarded  the  utterer,  however 
gracious  or  sincere,  with  suspicion.  Neither  had 


172  PETER'S  MOTHER 

the  squire  himself  erred  on  the  side  of  flattering 
his  fellow-creatures. 

"Oh  yes,  I  remember,"  said  Lady  Mary;  and 
she  rose  from  the  sofa. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter?  "  asked  Peter.  "  I 
haven't  vexed  you,  have  I?" 

She  turned  impetuously  and  threw  her  arms 
round  him  as  he  stood  by  the  hearth,  gazing  down 
upon  her  in  bewilderment. 

"Vexed  with  my  boy,  my  darling,  my  only 
son,  on  the  very  day  when  God  has  given  him 
back  to  me?"  she  cried  passionately.  "My  poor 
wounded  boy,  my  hero !  Oh  no,  no !  But  I  want 
only  love  from  you  to-day,  and  no  reproaches, 
Peter." 

"  Why,  I  wasn't  dreaming  of  reproaching  you, 
mother."  He  hesitated.  "Only  you're  a  bit 
different  from  what  I  expected — that's  all." 

"Have  I  disappointed  you?" 

"No,  no!  Only  I — well,  I  thought  I  might 
find  you  changed,  but  in  a  different  way,"  he 
said,  half  apologetically.  "Perhaps  older,  you 
know,  or — or  sadder." 

Lady  Mary's  white  face  flushed  scarlet  from 
brow  to  chin;  but  Peter,  occupied  with  his  mo- 
nocle, observed  nothing. 

"I'd  prepared  myself  for  that,"  he  said,  "and 
to  find  you  all  in  black.  And " 

"I  threw  off  my  mourning,"  she  murmured, 
"the  very  day  I  heard  you  were  coming  home." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  173 

She  paused,  and  added  hurriedly,  "It  was  very 
thoughtless.  I'm  sorry ;  I  ought  to  have  thought 
of  your  feelings,  my  darling." 

"Aunt  Isabella  has  never  changed  hers,  has 
she?"  said  Peter. 

"Aunt  Isabella  is  a  good  deal  more  conven- 
tional than  I  am;  and  a  great  many  years  older," 
said  Lady  Mary,  tremulously. 

"  I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it,"  said 
Peter. 

She  turned  away,  and  began  to  gather  up  her 
scattered  roses.  A  few  moments  since  the  roses 
had  been  less  than  nothing  to  her.  What  were 
roses,  what  was  anything,  compared  to  Peter? 
Now  they  crept  back  into  their  own  little  place  in 
creation;  their  beauty  and  fragrance  dumbly 
conveyed  a  subtle  comfort  to  her  soul,  as  she 
lovingly  laid  one  against  another,  until  a  glowing 
bouquet  of  coppery  golden  hue  was  formed.  She 
lifted  an  ewer  from  the  old  dresser,  and  poured 
water  into  a  great  silver  goblet,  wherein  she 
plunged  the  stalks  of  her  roses.  Why  should  they 
be  left  to  fade  because  Peter  had  come  home? 

"You  remember  these?"  she  said,  "from  the 
great  climber  round  my  bedroom  window?  I 
leant  out  and  cut  them — little  thinking " 

Peter  signified  a  gloomy  assent.  He  stood 
before  the  chimneypiece  watching  his  mother,  but 
not  offering  to  help  her;  rather  as  though  un- 
decided as  to  what  his  next  words  ought  to  be. 


174  PETER'S  MOTHER 

' '  Peter,  darling,  it's  so  funny  to  see  you  stand- 
ing there,  so  tall,  and  so  changed —  But 
though  it  was  so  funny  the  tears  were  dropping 
from  her  blue  eyes,  which  filled  and  overflowed 
like  a  child's,  without  painful  effort  or  grimaces. 
"You — you  remind  me  so  of  your  father,"  she 
said,  almost  involuntarily. 

"I'm  glad  I'm  like  him,"  said  Peter. 

She  sighed.  "  How  I  used  to  wish  you  were  a 
little  tiny  bit  like  me  too!" 

"  But  I'm  not,  ami?" 

"No,  you're  not.  Not  one  tiny  bit,"  she  an- 
swered wistfully.  "  But  you  do  love  me,  Peter?" 

"Haven't  I  proved  I  love  you?"  said  Peter; 
and  she  perceived  that  his  feelings  were  hurt. 
"Coming  back,  and — and  thinking  only  of  you, 
and — and  of  never  leaving  you  any  more.  Why, 
mother" — for  in  an  agony  of  love  and  remorse 
she  was  clinging  to  him  and  sobbing,  with  her  face 
pressed  against  his  empty  sleeve — "  why,  mother," 
Peter  repeated,  in  softened  tones,  "of  course  I 
love  you." 

The  drawing-room  door  was  cautiously  opened, 
and  Peter's  aunts  came  into  the  hall  on  tiptoe, 
followed  by  the  canon. 

"  Ah,  I  thought  so,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  in  the 
self-congratulatory  tones  of  the  successful  prophet, 
"it  has  been  too  much  for  poor  Mary.  She  has 
been  overcome  by  the  joy  of  dear  Peter's  return." 


CHAPTER  XII 

"TRY  my  salts,  dear  Mary,"  said  Miss  Crewys, 
hastening  to  apply  the  remedies  which  were  always 
to  be  found  in  her  black  velvet  reticule. 

"I  blame  myself,"  said  the  canon,  distress- 
fully— "I  blame  myself.  I  should  have  insisted 
on  breaking  the  news  to  her  gently." 

Lady  Mary  smiled  upon  them  all.  "On  the 
contrary,"  she  said,  "  I  was  offering,  not  a  moment 
ago,  to  take  Peter  round  and  show  him  the  im- 
provements. We  have  been  so  much  occupied 
with  each  other  that  he  has  not  had  time  to  look 
round  him." 

11 1  wish  he  may  think  them  improvements,  my 
love,"  said  Lady  Belstone. 

Miss  Crewys,  joyously  scenting  battle,  hastened 
to  join  forces  with  her  sister. 

"  We  are  far  from  criticizing  any  changes  your 
dear  mother  may  have  been  induced  to  make," 
she  said;  "but  as  your  Aunt  Isabella  has  fre- 
quently observed  to  me,  what  can  a  Londoner 
know  of  landscape  gardening?" 

"A  Londoner?"  said  Peter. 

"Your  guardian,  my  boy,"  said  the  canon, 

175. 


176  PETER'S  MOTHER 

nervously.  "He  has  slightly  opened  out  the 
views;  that  is  all  your  good  aunt  is  intending  to 
say." 

Peter's  good  aunt  opened  her  mouth  to  con- 
tradict this  assertion  indignantly,  but  Lady  Mary 
broke  in  with  some  impatience. 

"  I  do  not  mean  the  trees.  Of  course  the  house 
was  shut  in  far  too  closely  by  the  trees  at  the  back 
and  sides.  We  wanted  more  air,  more  light,  more 
freedom."  She  drew  a  long  breath  and  flung  out 
her  hands  in  unconscious  illustration.  "But 
there  are  many  very  necessary  changes  that — 
that  Peter  will  like  to  see,"  said  Lady  Mary, 
glancing  almost  defiantly  at  the  pursed-up  mouths 
and  lowered  eyelids  of  the  sisters. 

Peter  walked  suddenly  into  the  middle  of  the 
banqueting-hall  and  looked  round  him. 

"Why,  what's  come  to  the  old  place?  It's — 
it's  changed  somehow.  What  have  you  been 
doing  to  it?"  he  demanded. 

"Don't  you— don't  you  like  it,  Peter?"  fal- 
tered Lady  Mary.  "The  roof  was  not  safe,  you 
know,  and  had  to  be  mended,  and — and  when  it 
was  all  done  up,  the  furniture  and  curtains  looked 
so  dirty  and  ugly  and  inappropriate.  I  sent  them 
away  and  brought  down  some  of  the  beautiful  old 
things  that  belonged  to  your  great-grandmother, 
and  made  the  hall  brighter  and  more  livable." 

Peter  examined  the  new  aspect  of  his  domain 
with  lowering  brow. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  177 

"I  don't  like  it  at  all,"  he  announced,  finally. 
"I  hate  changes." 

The  sisters  breathed  again.  "So  like  his 
father!" 

Their  allegiance  to  Sir  Timothy  had  been 
transferred  to  his  heir. 

"Your  guardian  approved,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

She  turned  proudly  away,  but  she  could  not 
keep  the  pain  altogether  out  of  her  voice.  Neither 
would  she  stoop  to  solicit  Peter's  approval  before 
her  rejoicing  opponents. 

"  Mr.  John  Crewys  is  a  very  great  connoisseur," 
said  the  canon.  He  taxed  his  memory  for  corrob- 
orative evidence,  and  brought  out  the  result  with 
honest  pride.  "  I  believe,  curiously  enough,  that 
he  spends  most  of  his  spare  time  at  the  British 
Museum." 

Lady  Mary's  lip  quivered  with  laughter  in  the 
midst  of  her  very  real  distress  and  mortification. 

But  the  argument  appeared  to  the  canon  a 
most  suitable  one,  and  he  was  further  encouraged 
by  Peter's  reception  of  it. 

"If  my  guardian  approves,  I  suppose  it's  all 
right,"  said  the  young  man,  with  an  effort.  "  My 
father  left  all  that  sort  of  thing  in  his  hands,  I  un- 
derstand, and  he  knew  what  he  was  doing.  I  say, 
where's  that  great  vase  of  wax  flowers  that  used 
to  stand  on  the  centre  table  under  a  glass  shade?" 

"  Darling,"  said  Lady  Mary,  "  it  jarred  so  with 
the  whole  scheme  of  decoration." 


178  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  I  am  taking  care  of  that  in  my  room,  Peter," 
said  Miss  Crewys. 

"And  the  stuffed  birds,  and  the  weasels,  and 
the  ferrets  that  I  was  so  fond  of  when  I  was  a 
little  chap.  You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  done 
away  with  those  too?"  cried  Peter,  wrathfully. 

"They — they  are  in  the  gun-room,"  said  Lady 
Mary.  "  It  seemed  such  a — such — an  appropriate 
place  for  them." 

"I  believe,"  said  the  canon,  nervously,  "that 
stuffing  is  no  longer  considered  decorative.  After 
all,  why  should  we  place  dead  animals  in  our 
sitting-rooms?" 

He  looked  round  with  the  anxious  smile  of  the 
would-be  peacemaker. 

"They  were  very  much  worm-eaten,  Peter," 
said  Lady  Mary.  "But  if  you  would  like  them 
brought  back " 

Perhaps  the  pain  in  her  voice  penetrated  even 
Peter's  perception,  for  he  glanced  hastily  towards 
her. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  he  said  magnanimously. 
"  If  you  and  my  guardian  decided  they  were  rot- 
ten, there's  an  end  of  it.  Of  course  I'd  rather 
have  things  as  they  used  to  be ;  but  after  all  this 
time,  I  expect  there's  bound  to  be  a  few  changes." 
He  turned  from  the  contemplation  of  the  hall 
to  face  his  relatives  squarely,  with  the  air  of  an 
autocrat  who  had  decreed  that  the  subject  was  at 
an  end. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  179 

"By-the-by,"  said  Peter,  "where  is  John 
Crewys?  They  told  me  he  was  stopping  here." 

"He  will  be  in  directly,"  said  Lady  Mary, 
"and  Sarah  Hewel  ought  to  be  here  presently  too. 
She  is  coming  to  luncheon." 

"Sarah!"  said  Peter.  "  I  should  like  to  see  her 
again.  Is  she  still  such  a  rum  little  toad  ?  Always 
getting  into  scrapes,  and  coming  to  you  for  com- 
fort?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Lady  Mary,  and  her  blue  eyes 
twinkled — "  I  think  you  may  be  surprised  to  see 
little  Sarah.  She  is  grown  up  now." 

"Of  course,"  said  Peter.  "She's  only  a  year 
younger  than  I  am." 

Lady  Mary  wondered  why  Peter's  way  of 
saying  of  course  jarred  upon  her  so  much.  He  had 
always  been  brusque  and  abrupt ;  it  was  the  family 
fashion.  Was  it  because  she  had  grown  accus- 
tomed to  the  tactful  and  gentle  methods  of  John 
Crewys  that  it  seemed  to  have  become  suddenly 
such  an  intolerable  fashion?  Sir  Timothy  had 
quite  honestly  believed  tactfulness  to  be  a  form 
of  insincerity.  He  did  not  recognize  it  as  the 
highest  outward  expression  of  self-control.  But 
Lady  Mary,  since  she  had  known  John  Crewys, 
knew  also  that  it  is  consideration  for  the  feelings 
of  others  which  causes  the  wise  man  to  order  his 
speech  carefully. 

The  canon  shook  his  head  when  Peter  stated 
that  Miss  Hewel  was  his  junior  by  a  twelvemonth. 


180  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"She  might  be  ten  years  older,"  he  said,  in 
awe-struck  tones.  "I  have  always  heard  that 
women  were  extraordinarily  adaptable,  but  I 
never  realized  it  before.  However,  to  be  sure, 
she  has  seen  a  good  deal  more  of  the  world  than 
you  have.  More  than  most  of  us,  though  in  such 
a  comparatively  short  space  of  time.  But  she  is 
one  in  a  thousand  for  quickness." 

"Seen  more  of  the  world  than  I  have?"  said 
Peter,  astonished.  "Why,  I've  been  soldiering  in 
South  Africa  for  over  two  years." 

"  I  don't  think  soldiering  brings  much  worldly 
wisdom  in  its  train.  I  should  be  rather  sorry  to 
think  it  did,"  said  Lady  Mary,  gently.  "But 
Sarah  has  been  with  Lady  Tintern  all  this 
while." 

"A  very  worldly  woman,  indeed,  from  all  I 
have  heard,"  said  Miss  Crewys,  severely. 

"But  a  very  great  lady,"  said  Lady  Mary, 
"who  knows  all  the  famous  people,  not  only  in 
England,  but  in  Europe.  The  daughter  of  a 
viceroy,  and  the  wife  of  a  man  who  was  not  only 
a  peer,  and  a  great  landowner,  but  also  a  distin- 
guished ambassador.  And  she  has  taken  Sarah 
everywhere,  and  the  child  is  an  acknowledged 
beauty  in  London  and  Paris.  Lady  Tintern  is 
delighted  with  her,  and  declares  she  has  taken  the 
world  by  storm." 

"We  never  thought  her  a  beauty  down  here," 
said  Peter,  rather  contemptuously. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  181 

"  Perhaps  we  did  not  appreciate  her  sufficiently 
down  here,"  said  Lady  Mary,  smiling. 

"Why,  who  is  she,  after  all?"  cried  Peter. 

"A  very  beautiful  and  self-possessed  young 
woman,  and  Lady  Tintern's  niece,  'whom  not 
to  know  argues  yourself  unknown,'"  said  Lady 
Mary,  laughing  outright.  "  John  says  people  were 
actually  mobbing  her  picture  in  the  Academy ;  he 
could  not  get  near  it." 

"I  mean,"  said  Peter,  almost  sulkily,  "that 
she's  only  old  Colonel  Hewel's  daughter,  whom 
we've  known  all  our  lives." 

"Perhaps  one  is  in  danger  of  undervaluing 
people  one  has  known  all  one's  life,"  said  Lady 
Mary,  lightly. 

Peter  muttered  something  to  the  effect  that 
he  was  sorry  to  hear  Sarah  had  grown  up  like  that ; 
but  his  words  were  lost  in  the  tumultuous  entry 
of  Dr.  Blundell,  who  pealed  the  front  door  bell, 
and  rushed  into  the  hall,  almost  simultaneously. 

His  dark  face  was  flushed  and  enthusiastic. 
He  came  straight  to  Peter,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"A  thousand  welcomes,  Sir  Peter.  Lady 
Mary,  I  congratulate  you.  I  came  up  in  my  dog- 
cart as  fast  as  possible,  to  let  you  know  the  people 
are  turning  out  en  masse  to  welcome  you.  They're 
assembling  at  the  Crewys  Arms,  and  going  to 
hurry  up  to  the  house  in  a  regular  procession, 
band  and  all." 

"We're  proud  of  our  young  hero,  you  see," 


182  PETER'S  MOTHER 

said  the  canon ;  and  he  laid  his  hand  affectionately 
on  Peter's  shoulder. 

"You  will  have  to  say  a  few  words  to  them," 
said  Lady  Mary. 

"  Must  I  ? "  said  the  hero.  "  Let's  go  out  on  the 
terrace  and  see  what's  going  on.  We  can  watch 
them  the  whole  way  up." 

He  opened  the  door  into  the  south  drawing- 
rooms;  and  through  the  open  windows  there 
floated  the  distant  strains  of  the  village  band. 

"Canon,  your  arm,"  said  Lady  Belstone. 

Lady  Mary  and  her  son  had  hastened  out  on 
to  the  terrace. 

The  old  ladies  paused  in  the  doorway;  they 
were  particular  in  such  matters. 

"  I  believe  I  take  precedence,  Georgina,"  said 
Lady  Belstone,  apologetically. 

"I  am  far  from  disputing  it,  Isabella,"  said 
Miss  Crewys,  drawing  back  with  great  dignity. 
"You  are  the  elder." 

"  Age  does  not  count  in  these  matters  I  take 
precedence,  as  a  married  woman.  Will  you  bring 
up  the  rear,  Georgina,  as  my  poor  admiral  would 
have  said?" 

Miss  Crewys  bestowed  a  parting  toss  of  the  head 
upon  the  doctor,  and  followed  her  victorious  sister. 

The  doctor  laughed  silently  to  himself,  stand- 
ing in  the  pretty  shady  drawing-room;  now  gay 
with  flowers,  and  chintz,  and  Dresden  china. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  would  not  have  been  even 


PETER'S  MOTHER  183 

more  annoyed  with  my  presumption  if  I  had  of- 
fered her  my  arm,"  he  said  to  himself,  amusedly, 
"  than  she  is  offended  by  my  neglect  to  do  so? " 

He  did  not  follow  the  others  into  the  blinding 
sunshine  of  the  terrace.  He  had  had  a  long 
morning's  work,  and  was  hot  and  tired.  He 
looked  at  his  watch. 

"Past  one  o'clock;  h'm!  we  are  lucky  if  we 
get  anything  to  eat  before  half-past  two.  All  the 
servants  have  run  out,  of  course.  No  use  ringing 
for  whisky  and  seltzer.  All  the  better.  But,  at 
least,  one  can  rest." 

The  pleasantness  of  the  room  refreshed  his 
spirit.  The  interior  of  his  own  house  in  Brawnton 
was  not  much  more  enticing  than  the  exterior. 
The  doctor  had  no  time  to  devote  to  such  matters. 
He  sat  down  very  willingly  in  a  big  armchair,  and 
enjoyed  a  moment's  quiet  in  the  shade ;  glancing 
through  the  half-closed  green  shutters  at  the 
brilliant  picture  without. 

The  top  level  of  the  terrace  garden  was  car- 
peted with  pattern  beds  of  heliotrope,  and  lobelia, 
and  variegated  foliage.  Against  the  faint  blue- 
green  of  the  opposite  hill  rose  the  grey  stone  urns 
on  the  pillars  of  the  balcony;  and  from  the  urns 
hung  trailing  ivy  geraniums  with  pink  or  scarlet 
blossom,  making  splashes  of  colour  on  the  back- 
ground of  grey  distance.  Round  the  pillars 
wound  large  blue  clematis,  and  white  passion- 
flowers. 


184  PETER'S  MOTHER 

Lady  Mary  stood  full  in  the  sunshine,  which 
lent  once  more  the  golden  glory  of  her  vanished 
youth  to  her  brown  hair,  and  the  dazzle  of  new- 
fallen  snow  to  her  summer  gown. 

Close  to  her  side,  touching  her,  stood  the  young 
soldier;  straight  and  tall,  with  uncovered  head, 
towering  above  the  little  group. 

The  old  sisters  had  parasols,  and  the  canon 
wore  his  shovel  hat;  but  the  doctor  wasted  no 
time  in  observing  their  manifestations  of  delight 
and  excitement. 

"  So  my  beautiful  lady  has  got  her  precious  boy 
back  safe  and  sound,  save  for  his  right  arm,  and 
doubly  precious  because  that  is  missing.  God 
bless  her  a  thousand  times!"  he  thought  to  him- 
self. "  But  her  sweet  face  looked  more  sorrowful 
than  joyful  when  I  came  in.  What  had  he  been 
saying,  I  wonder,  to  make  her  look  like  that, 
already?" 

John  Crewys  entered  from  the  hall.  "  What's 
this  I  hear,"  he  said,  in  glad  tones — "the  hero 
returned?" 

"Ay,"  said  the  doctor.  "Sir  Timothy  is  for- 
gotten, and  Sir  Peter  reigns  in  his  stead." 

"Where  is  Lady  Mary?" 

The  doctor  drew  him  to  the  window.  ' '  There , ' ' 
he  said  grimly.  "  Why  don't  you  go  out  and  join 
her?" 

"She  has  her  son,"  said  John,  smiling. 

He  looked  with  interest  at  the  group  on  the 


PETER'S  MOTHER  185 

terrace ;  then  he  started  back  with  an  exclamation 
of  horror. 

"Why,  good  heavens ' 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor  quietly,  "the  poor 
fellow  has  lost  his  right  arm." 

There  was  a  sound  of  distant  cheering,  and  the 
band  could  be  heard  faintly  playing  the  Conquer- 
ing Hero. 

"  He  said  nothing  of  it,"  said  John. 

" No;  he's  a  plucky  chap,  with  all  his  faults." 

"  Has  he  so  many  faults? "  said  John. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  mistaken  if 
he  won't  turn  out  a  chip  of  the  old  block.  Though 
he's  better-looking  than  his  father,  he's  got  Sir 
Timothy's  very  expression." 

"He's  turned  out  a  gallant  soldier,  anyway," 
said  John,  cheerily.  "Don't  croak,  Blundell; 
we'll  make  a  man  of  him  yet." 

"Please  God  you  may,  for  his  mother's  sake," 
said  the  doctor ;  and  he  returned  to  his  armchair. 

John  Crewys  stood  by  the  open  French  window, 
and  drank  in  the  refreshing  breeze  which  fluttered 
the  muslin  curtains.  His  calm  and  thoughtful 
face  was  turned  away  from  the  doctor,  who  knew 
very  well  why  John's  gaze  was  so  intent  upon  the 
group  without. 

"Shall  I  warn  him,  or  shall  I  let  it  alone?" 
thought  Blundell.  "I  suppose  they  have  been 
waiting  only  for  this.  If  that  selfish  cub  objects, 
as  he  will — I  feel  very  sure  of  that — will  she  be 


186  PETER'S  MOTHER 

weak  enough  to  sacrifice  her  happiness,  or  can  I 
trust  John  Crewys?  He  looks  strong  enough  to 
take  care  of  himself,  and  of  her." 

He  looked  at  John's  decided  profile,  sil- 
houetted against  the  curtain,  and  thought  of 
Peter's  narrow  face.  "Weak  but  obstinate,"  he 
muttered  to  himself.  "Shrewd,  suspicious  eyes, 
but  a  receding  chin.  What  chance  would  the 
boy  have  against  a  man?  A  man  with  strength 
to  oppose  him,  and  brains  to  outwit  him.  None, 
save  for  the  one  undoubted  fact — the  boy  holds 
his  mother's  heart  in  the  hollow  of  his  careless 
hands." 

There  was  a  tremendous  burst  of  cheering,  no 
longer  distant,  and  the  band  played  louder. 

Lady  Mary  came  hurrying  across  the  terrace. 
Weeping  and  agitated,  and  half  blinded  by  her 
tears,  she  stumbled  over  the  threshold  of  the 
window,  and  almost  fell  into  John's  arms.  He 
drew  her  into  the  shadow  of  the  curtain. 

"  John,"  she  cried ;  she  saw  no  one  else.  "  Oh, 
I  can't  bear  it!  Oh,  Peter,  Peter,  my  boy,  my 
poor  boy!" 

The  doctor,  with  a  swift  and  noiseless  move- 
ment, turned  the  handle  of  the  window  next  him, 
and  let  himself  out  on  to  the  terrace. 

When  John  looked  up  he  was  already  gone. 
Lady  Mary  did  not  hear  the  slight  sound. 

"  Oh,  John,"  she  said,  " my  boy's  come  home — 
but— but " 


PETER'S  MOTHER  187 

"  I  know,"  John  said,  very  tenderly. 

"I  was  afraid  of  breaking  down  before  them 
all,"  she  whispered.  "Peter  was  afraid  I  should 
break  down,  and  I  felt  my  weakness,  and  came 
away." 

"Tome,"  said  John. 

His  heart  beat  strongly.  He  drew  her  more 
closely  into  his  arms,  deeply  conscious  that  he 
held  thus,  for  the  first  time,  all  he  loved  best  in  the 
world. 

"To  you,"  said  poor  Lady  Mary,  very  simply; 
as  though  aware  only  of  the  rest  and  support  that 
refuge  offered,  and  not  of  all  of  its  strangeness. 
"Alas!  it  has  grown  so  natural  to  come  to  you 
now." 

"It  will  grow  more  natural  every  day,"  said 
John. 

She  shook  her  head.  "There  is  Peter  now," 
she  said  faintly.  Then,  looking  into  his  face,  she 
realized  that  John  was  not  thinking  of  Peter. 

For  a  moment's  space  Lady  Mary,  too,  forgot 
Peter.  She  leant  against  the  broad  shoulder  of  the 
man  who  loved  her ;  and  felt  as  though  all  trouble, 
and  disappointment,  and  doubt  had  slidden  off 
her  soul,  and  left  her  only  the  blissful  certainty 
of  happy  rest. 

Then  she  laid  her  hand  very  gently  and  en- 
treatingly  on  his  arm. 

"I  will  not  let  you  go,"  said  John.     "You 
came  to  me — at  last — of  your  own  accord,  Mary." 


188  PETER'S  MOTHER 

She  coloured  deeply  and  leant  away  from  his 
arm,  looking  up  at  him  in  distress. 

"I  could  not  help  it,  John,"  she  said,  very 
simply  and  naturally.  "  But  oh,  I  don't  know  if 
I  can — if  I  ought — to  come  to  you  any  more." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  John. 

"  I — we — have  been  thinking  of  Peter  as  a  boy 
— as  the  boy  he  was  when  he  went  away,"  she  said, 
in  low,  hurrying  tones ;  "  but  he  has  come  home  a 
man,  and,  in  some  ways,  altogether  different.  He 
never  used  to  want  me ;  he  used  to  think  this  place 
dull,  and  long  to  get  away  from  it — and  from  me, 
for  that  matter.  But  now  he's — he's  wounded, 
as  you  know ;  maimed,  my  poor  boy,  for  life ;  and 
— and  he's  counting  on  me  to  make  his  home  for 
him.  We  never  thought  of  that.  He  says  it 
wouldn't  be  home  without  me ;  and  he  asked  my 
pardon  for  being  selfish  in  the  past;  my  poor 
Peter!  I  used  to  fear  he  had  such  a  little,  cold 
heart ;  but  I  was  all  wrong,  for  when  he  was  so  far 
away  he  thought  of  me,  and  was  sorry  he  hadn't 
loved  me  more.  He's  come  home  wanting  to  be 
everything  to  me,  as  I  am  to  be  everything  to  him. 
And  I  should  have  been  so  glad,  so  thankful,  only 
two  years  ago.  Oh,  have  I  changed  so  much  in 
two  little  years?" 

John  put  her  out  of  his  arms  very  gently,  and 
walked  towards  the  window.  His  face  was  pale, 
but  he  still  smiled,  and  his  hazel  eyes  were  bright. 

"You're  angry,  John,"  said  Lady  Mary,  very 


PETER'S  MOTHER  189 

sweetly  and  humbly.  "You've  a  right  to  be 
angry." 

"I  am  not  angry,"  he  said  gently.  "I  may 
be — a  little — disappointed."  He  did  not  look 
round. 

"  You  know  I  was  too  happy,"  said  poor  Lady 
Mary.  She  sank  into  a  chair,  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands.  "  It  was  wicked  of  me  to  be  so 
happy,  and  now  I'm  going  to  be  punished  for  it." 

John's  great  heart  melted  within  him.  He 
came  swiftly  back  to  her  and  knelt  by  her  side, 
and  kissed  the  little  hand  she  gave  him. 

"Too  happy,  were  you?"  he  said,  with  a  ten- 
derness that  rendered  his  deep  voice  unsteady. 
"  Because  you  promised  to  marry  me  when  Peter 
came  home?" 

"That,  and — and  everything  else,"  she 
whispered.  "  Life  seemed  to  have  widened  out, 
and  grown  so  beautiful.  All  the  dull,  empty 
hours  were  filled.  Our  music,  our  reading,  our 
companionship,  our  long  walks  and  talks,  our 
letters  to  each  other — all  those  pleasures  which 
you  showed  me  were  at  once  so  harmless  and  so 
delightful.  And  as  if  that  were  not  enough — 
came  love.  Such  love  as  I  had  only  dreamed  of — 
such  understanding  of  each  other's  every  thought 
and  word,  as  I  did  not  know  was  possible  between 
man  and  woman — or  at  least" — she  corrected 
herself  sadly — "  between  any  man  and  a  woman — 
of  my  age." 


190  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"You  talk  of  your  age,"  said  John,  smiling 
tenderly,  "as  though  it  were  a  crime." 

"It  is  not  a  crime,  but  it  is  a  tragedy,"  said 
Lady  Mary.  "Age  is  a  tragedy  to  every  woman 
who  wants  to  be  happy." 

"No  more,  surely,  than  to  every  man  who 
loves  his  work,  and  sees  it  slipping  from  his  grasp," 
said  John,  slowly.  "  It's  a  tragedy  we  all  have  to 
face,  for  that  matter." 

"  But  so  much  later,"  said  Lady  Mary,  quickly. 

"  I  don't  see  why  women  should  leave  off 
wanting  to  be  happy  any  sooner  than  men,"  he 
said  stoutly. 

"  But  Nature  does,"  she  answered. 

John's  eyes  twinkled.  "  For  my  part,  I  am 
thankful  to  fate,  which  caused  me  to  fall  in  love 
with  a  woman  only  ten  years  my  junior,  instead  of 
with  a  girl  young  enough  to  be  my  daughter.  I 
have  gained  a  companion  as  well  as  a  wife;  and 
marvellously  adaptive  as  young  women  are,  I  am 
conceited  enough  to  think  my  ideas  have  travelled 
beyond  the  ideas  of  most  girls  of  eighteen ;  and  I 
am  not  conceited  enough  to  suppose  the  girl  of 
eighteen  would  not  find  me  an  old  fogey  very 
much  in  the  way.  Let  boys  mate  with  girls,  say 
I,  and  men  with  women." 

Lady  Mary  smiled  in  spite  of  herself.  "You 
know,  John,  you  would  argue  entirely  the  other 
way  round  if  you  happened  to  be  in  love  with — 
Sarah,"  she  said. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  191 

"To  be  sure,"  said  John;  "it's  my  trade  to 
argue  for  the  side  which  retains  my  services.  I 
am  your  servant,  thank  Heaven,  and  not  Sarah's. 
And  I  have  no  intention  of  quitting  your  service," 
he  added,  more  gravely.  "We  have  settled  the 
question  of  the  future." 

"The  empty  future  that  suddenly  grew  so 
bright,"  said  Lady  Mary,  dreamily.  "Do  you 
remember  how  you  talked  of — Italy?" 

"Where  we  shall  yet  spend  our  honeymoon," 
said  John.  "But  I  believe  you  liked  better  to 
hear  of  my  shabby  rooms  in  London  which  you 
meant  to  share." 

"Of  course,"  she  said  simply.  "I  knew  I 
should  bring  you  so  little  money." 

"And  you  thought  barristers  always  lived 
from  hand  to  mouth,  and  made  no  allowance  for 
my  having  got  on  in  my  profession." 

"Ah!  what  did  it  matter?" 

"I  think  you  will  find  it  makes  just  a  little 
difference,"  John  said,  smiling. 

"Outside  circumstances  make  less  difference 
to  women  than  men  suppose,"  said  Lady  Mary. 
"They  are,  oh,  so  willing  to  be  pampered  in 
luxury;  and,  oh,  so  willing  to  fly  to  the  other 
extreme,  and  do  without  things." 

"Are  they  really?"  said  John,  rather  dryly. 

He  glanced  at  the  little,  soft,  white  hand  he 
held,  and  smiled.  It  looked  so  unfitted  to  help 
itself. 


192  PETER'S  MOTHER 

Lady  Mary  was  resting  in  her  armchair,  her 
delicate  face  still  flushed  with  emotion.  A  trans- 
parent purple  shade  beneath  the  blue  eyes  be- 
trayed that  she  had  been  weeping;  but  she  was 
calmed  by  John's  strong  and  tranquil  presence. 
The  shady  room  was  cool  and  fragrant  with  the 
scent  of  heliotrope  and  mignonette. 

The  band  had  reached  a  level  plateau  below  the 
terrace  garden,  and  was  playing  martial  airs  to 
encourage  stragglers  in  the  procession,  and  to  give 
the  principal  inhabitants  of  Youlestone  time  to  ar- 
rive,and  to  regain  their  wind  after  the  steep  ascent. 

Every  time  a  batch  of  new  arrivals  recognized 
Peter's  tall  form  on  the  terrace,  a  fresh  burst  of 
cheering  rose. 

From  all  sides  of  the  valley,  hurrying  figures 
could  be  seen  approaching  Barracombe  House. 

The  noise  and  confusion  without  seemed  to 
increase  the  sense  of  quiet  within,  and  the  sounds 
of  the  gathering  crowd  made  them  feel  apart  and 
alone  together  as  they  had  never  felt  before. 

"So  all  our  dreams  are  to  be  shattered,"  said 
John,  quietly,  "because  your  prayer  has  been 
granted,  and  Peter  has  come  home?" 

"If  you  could  have  heard  all  he  said,"  she 
whispered  sadly.  "  He  has  come  home  loving  me, 
trusting  me,  dependent  on  me,  as  he  has  never 
been  before,  since  his  babyhood.  Don't  you  see — 
that  even  if  it  breaks  my  heart,  I  couldn't  fail  my 
boy — just  now?" 


PETER'S  MOTHER  193 

There  was  a  pause,  and  she  regarded  him 
anxiously;  her  hands  were  clasped  tightly  to- 
gether in  the  effort  to  still  their  trembling,  her 
blue  eyes  looked  imploring. 

John  knew  very  well  that  it  lay  within  his 
powers  to  make  good  his  claim  upon  that  gentle 
heart,  and  enforce  his  will  and  her  submission  to 
it.  But  the  strongest  natures  are  those  which 
least  incline  to  tyranny ;  and  he  had  already  seen 
the  results  of  coercion  upon  that  bright  and  joy- 
ous, but  timid  nature.  He  knew  that  her  love  for 
him  was  of  the  fanciful,  romantic,  high-flown 
order;  and  as  such,  it  appealed  to  every  chival- 
rous instinct  within  him.  Though  his  love  for  her 
was,  perhaps,  of  a  different  kind,  he  desired  her 
happiness  and  her  peace  of  mind,  as  strongly  as 
he  desired  her  companionship  and  the  sympathy 
which  was  to  brighten  his  lonely  life.  He  was 
silent  for  a  moment,  considering  how  he  should 
act.  If  love  counselled  haste,  common  sense 
suggested  patience. 

"I  couldn't  disappoint  him  now.  You  see 
that,  John?"  said  the  anxious,  gentle  voice. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  do  see  it,  Mary,"  he  said.  "  Our 
secret  must  remain  our  secret  for  the  present." 

"God  bless  you,  John!"  said  Lady  Mary, 
softly.  "You  always  understand." 

"I  am  old  enough,  at  least,  to  know  that 
happiness  cannot  be  attained  by  setting  duty 
aside,"  he  said,  as  cheerfully  as  he  could. 


194  PETER'S  MOTHER 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  music  outside,  and  a 
voice  was  heard  speaking. 

John  rose  and  straightened  himself. 

"  Have  you  decided  what  is  to  be  done — what 
we  had  best  do? "  she  said  timidly. 

"  I  am  going  to  prove  that  a  lover  can  be  de- 
voted, and  yet  perfectly  reasonable;  in  defiance 
of  all  tradition  to  the  contrary,"  he  said  gaily.  "  I 
shall  return  to  town  as  soon  as  I  can  decently  get 
away — probably  to-morrow." 

She  uttered  a  cry.  "You  are  going  to  leave 
me?" 

"  I  must  give  place  to  Peter." 

She  came  to  his  side,  and  clung  to  his  arm  as 
though  terrified  by  the  success  of  her  own  appeal. 

"But  you'll  come  back?" 

"  I  have  to  account  for  my  stewardship  when 
Peter  comes  of  age  in  the  autumn,"  he  said, 
smiling  down  upon  her. 

She  was  too  quick  of  perception  not  to  know 
that  strength,  and  courage,  too,  were  needed  for 
the  smile  wherewith  John  strove  to  hide  a  dis- 
appointment too  deep  for  words.  He  answered 
the  look  she  gave  him;  a  look  which  implored 
forgiveness,  understanding,  even  encouragement. 

"I'm  not  yielding  a  single  inch  of  my  claim 
upon  you  when  the  time  comes,  my  darling ;  only 
I  think,  with  you,  that  the  time  has  not  come  yet. 
I  think  Peter  may  reasonably  expect  to  be  con- 
sidered first  for  the  present ;  and  that  you  should 


PETER'S  MOTHER  195 

be  free  to  devote  your  whole  attention  to  him, 
especially  as  he  has  such  praiseworthy  intentions. 
We  will  postpone  the  whole  question  until  the 
autumn,  when  he  comes  of  age ;  and  when  I  shall, 
consequently,  be  able  to  tackle  him  frankly,  man 
to  man,  and  not  as  one  having  authority  and 
abusing  that  same,"  he  laughed.  "  Meantime,  we 
must  be  patient.  Write  often,  but  not  so  often  as 
to  excite  remark;  and  I  shall  return  in  the 
autumn." 

"To  stay?" 

"Ah!"  said  John,  "that  depends  on  you." 

He  had  not  meant  to  be  satirical,  but  the  slight 
inflection  of  his  tone  cut  Lady  Mary  to  the  heart. 

Her  vivid  imagination  saw  her  conduct  in  its 
worst  light :  vacillating,  feeble,  deserting  the  man 
she  loved  at  the  moment  she  had  led  him  to  ex- 
pect triumph;  dismissing  her  faithful  servant 
without  his  reward.  Then,  in  a  flash,  came  the 
other  side  of  the  picture — the  mother  of  a  grown- 
up son — a  wounded  soldier  dependent  on  her  love 
— seeking  her  personal  happiness  as  though  there 
existed  no  past  memories,  no  present  duties,  to 
hinder  the  fulfilling  of  her  own  belated  romance. 

"  Oh,  John,"  said  Lady  Mary,  "  tell  me  what  to 
do?  No,  no ;  don't  tell  me — or  I  shall  do  it — and 
I  mustn't." 

"My  darling,"  he  said,  "I  only  tell  you  to  wait." 
He  rallied  himself  to  speak  cheerfully,  and  to  bring 
the  life  and  colour  back  to  her  sad,  white  face, 


196  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  Just  at  this  moment  I  quite  realize  I  should  be  a 
disturbing  element,  and  I  am  going  to  get  myself 
out  of  the  way  as  quickly  as  politeness  permits. 
And  you  are  to  devote  yourself  to  Peter,  and  not 
to  be  torn  with  self-reproach.  If  we  act  sensibly, 
and  don't  precipitate  matters,  nobody  need  have 
a  grievance,  and  Peter  and  I  will  be  the  best  of 
friends  in  the  future,  I  hope.  There  is  little  use  in 
having  grown-up  wits  if  we  snatch  our  happiness 
at  the  expense  of  other  people's  feelings,  as  young 
folk  so  often  do." 

The  twinkle  in  his  bright  eyes,  and  the  kindly 
humour  of  his  smile,  restored  her  shaken  self-con- 
fidence. 

"  Oh,  John,  no  one  else  could  ever  understand 
— as  you  understand.  If  only  Peter ' 

"Peter  is  a  boy,"  said  John,  "dreaming  as  a 
boy  dreams,  resolving  as  a  boy  resolves ;  and  his 
dreams  and  his  resolutions  are  as  light  as  thistle- 
down :  the  first  breath  of  a  new  fancy,  or  a  fresh  in- 
terest, will  blow  them  away.  I  put  my  faith  in  the 
future ,  in  the  near  future .  Time  works  wonders . ' ' 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  hands,  one  after  the 
other,  with  a  possessive  tenderness  that  told  her 
better  than  words,  that  he  had  not  resigned  his 
claims. 

"Now  I'll  go  and  offer  my  congratulations  to 
the  hero  of  the  day,"  said  John.  "  I  must  not  put 
off  any  longer;  and  it  is  quite  settled  that  our 
secret  is  to  remain  our  secret— for  the  present." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  197 

Then  he  stepped  out  on  to  the  terrace,  and 
Lady  Mary  looked  after  him  with  a  little  sigh  and 
smile. 

She  lifted  a  hand-mirror  from  the  silver  table 
that  stood  at  her  elbow,  and  shook  her  head  over 
it. 

"It's  all  very  well  for  him,  and  it's  all  very 
well  for  Peter,"  she  said ;  "  but  Time — Time  is  my 
worst  enemy." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SARAH  HEWEL  ran  into  the  drawing-room  before 
Lady  Mary  found  courage  to  put  her  newly  gained 
composure  to  the  test,  by  joining  the  crowd  on  the 
terrace. 

"Oh,  Lady  Mary,  are  you  there?"  she  cried, 
pausing  in  her  eager  passage  to  the  window.  "  I 
thought  you  would  be  out-of-doors  with  the 
others!" 

"Sarah,  my  dear!"  said  Lady  Mary,  kissing 
her. 

"I — I  saw  all  the  people,"  said  Sarah,  in  a 
breathless,  agitated  way,  "  I  heard  the  news,  and 
I  wasn't  sure  whether  I  ought  to  come  to  luncheon 
all  the  same  or  not;  so  I  slipped  in  by  the  side 
door  to  see  whether  I  could  find  some  one  to  ask 
quietly.  Oh!"  cried  Sarah,  throwing  her  arms 
impetuously  round  Lady  Mary's  neck,  "tell  me 
it  isn't  true?" 

"My  boy  has  come  home,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

Sarah  turned  from  red  to  white,  and  from 
white  to  red  again. 

"But  they  said,"  she  faltered — "they  said 

he " 

198 


PETER'S  MOTHER  199 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  said  Lady  Mary,  under- 
standing; and  the  tears  started  to  her  own  eyes. 
"Peter  has  lost  an  arm, but  otherwise — otherwise, " 
she  said,  in  trembling  tones,  "  my  boy  is  safe  and 
sound." 

Sarah  turned  away  her  face  and  cried. 

Lady  Mary  was  touched.  "  Why,  Sarah! "  she 
said;  and  she  drew  the  girl  down  beside  her  on 
the  sofa  and  kissed  her  softly. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  be  so  silly,"  said  Sarah,  recov- 
ering herself.  " It  isn't  a  bit  like  me,  is  it?" 

"  It  is  like  you,  I  think,  to  have  a  warm  heart," 
said  Lady  Mary,  "though  you  don't  show  it  to 
every  one;  and,  after  all,  you  and  Peter  are  old 
friends — playmates  all  your  lives." 

"It's  been  like  a  lump  of  lead  on  my  heart  all 
these  months  and  years,"  said  Sarah,  "to  think 
how  I  scoffed  at  Peter  in  the  Christmas  holidays 
before  he  went  to  the  war,  because  my  brothers 
had  gone,  whilst  he  stayed  at  home.  Perhaps 
that  was  the  reason  he  went.  I  used  to  lie  awake 
at  night  sometimes,  thinking  that  if  Peter  were 
killed  it  would  be  all  my  fault.  And  now  his  arm 
has  gone — and  Tom  and  Willie  came  back  safely 
long  ago."  She  cried  afresh. 

"It  may  not  have  been  that  at  all,"  said  Lady 
Mary,  consolingly.  "  I  don't  think  Peter  was  a 
boy  to  take  much  notice  of  what  a  goose  of  a  little 
girl  said.  He  felt  he  was  a  man,  and  ought  to  go 
— and  his  grandfather  was  a  soldier — it  is  in  the 


200  PETER'S  MOTHER 

blood  of  the  Setouns  to  want  to  fight  for  their 
country,"  said  Lady  Mary,  with  a  smile  and  a 
little  thrill  of  pride ;  for,  after  all,  if  her  boy  were 
a  Crewys,  he  was  also  a  Setoun.  "  Besides,  poor 
child,  you  were  so  young ;  you  didn't  think ;  you 
didn't  know " 

"You  always  make  excuses  for  me,"  said 
Sarah,  with  subdued  enthusiasm;  "but  I  under- 
stand better  now  what  it  means — to  send  an  only 
son  away  from  his  mother." 

"The  young  take  responsibility  so  lightly," 
said  Lady  Mary.  "  But  now  he  has  come  home, 
my  darling,  why,  you  needn't  reproach  yourself 
any  longer.  It  is  good  of  you  to  care  so  much  for 
my  boy." 

"It — it  isn't  only  that.  Of  course,  I  was 
always  fond  of  Peter,"  said  Sarah;  "but  even  if 
I  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  going" — her  voice 
sounded  incredulous — "you  know  how  one  feels 
over  our  soldiers  coming  home — and  a  boy  who 
has  given  his  right  arm  for  England.  It  makes 
one  so  choky  and  yet  so  proud — I  can't  say  all  I 
mean — but  you  know " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Lady  Mary;  and  she 
smiled,  but  the  tears  were  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 

"And  what  it  must  be  to  you''  sobbed  Sarah, 
"  the  day  you  were  to  have  been  so  happy,  to  see 
him  come  back  like  that!  No  wonder  you  are  sad. 
One  feels  one  could  never  do  enough  to — to  make 
it  up  to  him." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  201 

"But  I'm  far  more  happy  than  sad,"  said 
Lady  Mary;  and  to  prove  her  words  she  leant 
back  upon  the  cushions  and  cried. 

"You're  not,"  said  Sarah,  kneeling  by  her; 
"how  can  you  be,  my  darling,  sweet  Lady  Mary? 
But  you  must  be  happy,"  she  said;  and  her  odd, 
deep  tones  took  a  note  of  coaxing  that  was  hard 
to  resist.  "Think  how  proud  every  one  will  be 
of  him,  and  how — how  all  the  other  mothers  will 
envy  you!  You — you  mustn't  care  so  terribly. 
It — it  isn't  as  if  he  had  to  work  for  his  living.  It 
won't  make  any  real  difference  to  his  life.  And 
he'll  let  you  do  everything  for  him — even  write 
his  letters " 

"Oh,  Sarah,  Sarah,  stop!"  said  Lady  Mary, 
faintly.  "  It— it  isn't  that." 

"Not  that!"  said  Sarah,  changing  her  tone. 
She  pounced  on  the  admission  like  a  cat  on  a 
mouse.  "Then  why  do  you  cry?" 

Lady  Mary  looked  up  confused  into  the 
severely  inquiring  young  face. 

Sarah's  apple-blossom  beauty,  as  was  to  have 
been  expected,  had  increased  a  thousand-fold 
since  her  school  girl  days.  She  had  grown  tall 
to  match  the  plumpness  of  her  figure,  which  had 
not  decreased.  Her  magnificent  hair  showed  its 
copper  redness  in  every  variety  of  curl  and  twist 
upon  her  white  forehead,  and  against  her  whiter 
throat. 

She  was  no  longer  dressed  in  blue  cotton. 


202  PETER'S  MOTHER 

Lady  Tintern  knew  how  to  give  such  glorious 
colouring  its  true  value.  A  gauzy,  transparent 
black  flowed  over  a  close-fitting  white  gown  be- 
neath, and  veiled  her  fair  arms  and  neck.  Black 
bebe  ribbon  gathered  in  coquettishly  the  folds 
which  shrouded  Sarah's  abundant  charms,  and  a 
broad  black  sash  confined  her  round  young  waist. 
A  black  chip  hat  shaded  the  glowing  hair  and  the 
face,  "ruddier  than  the  cherry,  and  whiter  than 
milk;"  and  the  merry,  dark  blue  eyes  had  a  pent- 
house of  their  own,  of  drooping  lashes,  which 
redeemed  the  boldness  of  their  frank  and  open 
gaze. 

"  If  it  is  not  that — why  do  you  cry?"  she  de- 
manded imperiously. 

"  It's— just  happiness,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

Sarah  looked  wise,  and  shook  her  head.  "  Oh 
no,"  she  quoth.  "Those  aren't  happy  tears." 

"You're  too  old,  dear  Sarah,  to  be  an  enfant 
terrible  still,"  said  Lady  Mary;  but  Sarah  was  not 
so  easily  disarmed. 

"  I  will  know!  Come,  I'm  your  godchild,  and 
you  always  spoil  me.  He's  not  come  back  in  one 
of  his  moods,  has  he?" 

"Who?"  cried  Lady  Mary,  colouring. 

"Who!  Why,  who  are  we  talking  of  but 
Peter?"  said  Sarah,  opening  her  big-pupilled  eyes. 

"Oh  no,  no!     He's  changed  entirely " 

"Changed!" 

"  I   don't   mean   exactly   changed,   but   he's 


PETER'S  MOTHER  203 

— he's  grown  so  loving  and  so  sweet — not  that  he 
wasn't  always  loving  in  his  heart,  but 

"  Oh,"  cried  Sarah,  impatiently,  "  as  if  I  didn't 
know  Peter!  But  if  it  wasn't  that  which  made  you 
so  unhappy,  what  was  it?"  She  bent  puzzled 
brows  upon  her  embarrassed  hostess. 

"  Let  me  go,  Sarah;  you  ask  too  much!"  said 
Lady  Mary.  "  Oh  no,  my  darling,  I'm  not  angry! 
How  could  I  be  angry  with  my  little  loyal  Sarah, 
who's  always  loved  me  so?  It's  only  that  I  can't 
bear  to  be  questioned  just  now."  She  caressed 
the  girl  eagerly,  almost  apologetically.  "  I  must 
have  a  few  moments  to  recover  myself.  I'll  go 
quietly  away  into  the  study — anywhere.  Wait  for 
me  here,  darling,  and  make  some  excuse  for  me 
if  any  one  comes.  I  want  to  be  alone  for  a  few 
moments.  Peter  mustn't  find  me  crying  again." 

"Yes — that's  all  very  well,"  said  Sarah  to 
herself,  as  the  slight  form  hurried  from  the 
drawing-room  into  the  dark  oak  hall  beyond. 
"But  why  is  she  unhappy?  There  is  something 
else." 

It  was  Dr.  Blundell  who  found  the  answer  to 
Sarah's  riddle. 

He  had  seen  the  signs  of  weeping  on  Lady 
Mary's  face  as  she  stumbled  over  the  threshold  of 
the  window  into  the  very  arms  of  John  Crewys, 
and  his  feelings  were  divided  between  passionate 
sympathy  with  his  divinity,  and  anger  with  the 
returned  hero,  who  had  no  doubt  reduced  his 


204  PETER'S  MOTHER 

mother  to  this  distressful  state.  The  doctor  was 
blinded  by  love  and  misery,  and  ready  to  suspect 
the  whole  world  of  doing  injustice  to  this  lady; 
though  he  believed  himself  to  be  destitute  of 
jealousy,  and  capable  of  judging  Peter  with  per- 
fect impartiality. 

His  fancy  leapt  far  ahead  of  fact ;  and  he  sup- 
posed, not  only  that  Lady  Mary  must  be  engaged 
to  John  Crewys,  but  that  she  must  have  confided 
her  engagement  to  her  son,  and  that  Peter  had 
already  forbidden  the  banns. 

He  wandered  miserably  about  the  grounds, 
within  hearing  of  the  rejoicings;  and  had  just 
made  up  his  mind  that  he  ought  to  go  and  join  the 
speechmakers,  when  he  perceived  John  Crewys 
himself  standing  next  to  Peter,  apparently  on  the 
best  possible  terms  with  the  hero  of  the  day. 

The  doctor  hastened  round  to  the  hall,  in- 
tending to  enter  the  drawing-room  unobserved, 
and  find  out  for  himself  whether  Lady  Mary  had 
recovered,  or  whether  John  Crewys  had  heart- 
lessly abandoned  her  to  her  grief. 

The  brilliant  vision  Miss  Sarah  presented,  as 
she  stood,  drawn  up  to  her  full  height,  in  the 
shaded  drawing-room,  met  his  anxious  gaze  as  he 
entered. 

"Why,  Miss  Sarah!  Not  gone  back  to  Lon- 
don yet?  I  thought  you  only  came  down  for 
Whitsuntide." 

"  Mamma  wasn't  well,  so  I  am  staying  on  for  a 


PETER'S  MOTHER  205 

few  days.  I  am  supposed  to  be  nursing  her,"  said 
Sarah,  demurely. 

She  was  a  favourite  with  the  doctor,  as  she  was 
very  well  aware,  and,  in  consequence,  was  always 
exceedingly  gracious  to  him. 

"Where  is  Lady  Mary?"  he  asked. 

She  stole  to  his  side,  and  put  her  finger  on  her 
lips,  and  lowered  her  voice. 

"She  went  through  the  hall — into  the  study. 
And  she's  alone — crying." 

"Crying!"  said  the  doctor;  and  he  made  a 
step  towards  the  open  door,  but  Sarah's  strong, 
white  hand  held  him  fast. 

"Play  fair,"  she  said  reproachfully;  "I  told 
you  in  confidence.  You  can't  suppose  she  wants 
you  to  see  her  crying." 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  poor  doctor,  "  of  course  not 
— of  course  not." 

She  closed  the  doors  between  the  rooms. 
"Look  here,  Dr.  Blundell,  we've  always  been 
friends,  haven't  we,  you  and  me?" 

"  Ever  since  I  had  the  honour  of  ushering  you 
into  the  world  you  now  adorn,"  said  the  doctor, 
with  an  ironical  bow. 

" Then  tell  me  the  truth,"  said  Sarah.  "  Why 
is  she  unhappy,  to-day  of  all  days?" 

The  doctor  looked  uneasily  away  from  her. 
"  Perhaps — the  joy  of  Peter's  return  has  been  too 
much  for  her,"  he  suggested. 

"Yes,"  said  Sarah.     "That's  what  we'll  tell 


206  PETER'S  MOTHER 

the  other  people.  But  you  and  I — why,  Dr.  Blun- 
derbuss," she  said  reproachfully,  using  the  name 
she  had  given  him  in  her  saucy  childhood,  "you 
know  how  I've  worshipped  Lady  Mary  ever  since 
I  was  a  little  girl?" 

"Yes,  yes,  my  dear,  I  know,"  said  the  doctor. 

"You  love  her  too,  don't  you?"  said  Sarah. 

He  started.  "1—7  love  Lady  Mary!  What 
do  you  mean?"  he  said,  almost  violently. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that  sort  of  love,"  said 
Sarah,  watching  him  keenly.  Then  she  laid  her 
plump  hand  gently  on  his  shabby  sleeve.  "  I 
wouldn't  have  said  it,  if  I'd  thought — 

"Thought  what?"  said  the  doctor,  agitated. 

"What  I  think  now,"  said  Sarah. 

He  walked  up  and  down  in  a  silence  she  was 
too  wise  to  break.  When  he  looked  at  her  again, 
Sarah  was  leaning  against  the  piano.  She  had 
taken  off  the  picture-hat,  and  was  swinging  it 
absently  to  and  fro  by  the  black  ribbons  which 
had  but  now  been  tied  beneath  her  round,  white 
chin.  She  presented  a  charming  picture — and  it 
is  possible  she  knew  it — as  she  stood  in  that  rest- 
ful pose,  with  her  long  lashes  pointed  downwards 
towards  her  buckled  shoes. 

The  doctor  stopped  in  front  of  her.  "  You  are 
too  quick  for  me,  Sarah.  You  always  were,  even 
as  a  little  girl,"  he  said.  "  You've  surprised  my — 
my  poor  secret.  You  can  laugh  at  the  old  doctor 
now,  if  you  like." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  207 

"I  don't  feel  like  laughing,"  said  Sarah,  sim- 
ply. "And  your  secret  is  safe  with  me.  I'm 
honest;  you  know  that." 

' '  Yes ,  my  dear ;  I  know  that .  God  bless  you ! ' ' 
said  the  doctor. 

"I'm  sorry,  Dr.  Blundell,"  said  Sarah,  softly. 

The  deep  voice  which  came  from  the  full, 
white  chest,  and  which  had  once  been  so  un- 
manageable, was  one  of  Sarah's  surest  weapons 
now. 

When  she  sang,  she  counted  her  victims  by  the 
dozen ;  when  she  lowered  it,  as  she  lowered  it  now, 
to  speak  only  to  one  man,  every  note  went  straight 
to  his  heart — if  he  had  an  ear  for  music  and  a 
heart  for  love. 

When  Sarah  said,  in  these  dulcet  tones, 
therefore,  that  she  was  sorry  for  her  old  friend, 
the  tears  gathered  to  the  doctor's  kind,  tired  eyes. 

"For  me!"  he  said  gratefully.  "Oh,  you 
mustn't  be  sorry  for  me.  She — she  could  hardly 
be  further  out  of  my  reach,  you  know,  if  she  were 
— an  angel  in  heaven,  instead  of  being  what  she  is 
— an  angel  on  earth.  It  is — of  her  that  I  was 
thinking." 

"I  know,"  said  Sarah;  "but  she  has  been 
looking  so  bright  and  hopeful,  ever  since  we  heard 
Peter  was  coming  home — until  to-day — when  he 
has  actually  come;  and  that  is  what  puzzles  me." 

"To-day — to-day!"  said  the  doctor,  as  though 
to  himself.  "  Yes ;  it  was  to-day  I  saw  her  touch 


208  PETER'S  MOTHER 

happiness  timidly,  and  come  face  to  face  with 
disappointment. ' ' 

"You  saw  her?" 

"Oh,  when  one  loves,"  he  said  bitterly,  "one 
has  intuitions  which  serve  as  well  as  eyes  and  ears. 
You  will  know  all  about  it  one  day,  little  Sarah." 

"Shall  I?"  said  Sarah.  She  turned  her  face 
away  from  the  doctor. 

"You've  not  been  here  very  much  lately,"  he 
said,  "but  you've  been  here  long  enough  to  guess 
her  secret,  as  you — you've  guessed  mine.  Eh? 
You  needn't  pretend,  for  my  sake,  to  misunder- 
stand me." 

"  I  wasn't  going  to,"  said  Sarah,  gently. 

"John  Crewys  is  the  very  man  I  would  have 
chosen — I  did  choose  him,"  said  the  doctor,  look- 
ing at  her  almost  fiercely.  It  was  an  odd  consola- 
tion to  him  to  believe  he  had  first  led  John  Crewys 
to  interest  himself  in  Lady  Mary.  He  recognized 
his  rival's  superior  qualifications  very  fully  and 
humbly.  "You  know  all  about  it,  Miss  Sarah, 
don't  tell  me ;  so  quick  as  you  are  to  find  out  what 
doesn't  concern  you." 

"  I  saw  that — Mr.  John  Crewys — liked  her,"  said 
Sarah,  in  a  low  voice;  "but,  then,  so  does  every- 
body. I  wasn't  sore — I  couldn't  believe  that  she — 

"  You  haven't  watched  as  I  have,"  he  groaned ; 
"you  haven't  seen  the  sparkle  come  back  to  her 
eye,  and  the  colour  to  her  cheek.  You  haven't 
watched  her  learning  to  laugh  and  sing  and  enjoy 


PETER'S  MOTHER  209 

her  innocent  days  as  Nature  bade ;  since  she  has 
dared  to  be  herself.  It  was  love  that  taught  her 
all  that." 

"Love!"  said  Sarah. 

Her  soft,  red  lips  parted;  and  hei  breath 
quickened  with  a  sudden  sensation  of  mingled  in- 
terest, sympathy,  and  amusement. 

"Ay,  love,"  said  the  doctor,  half  angrily.  He 
detected  the  deepening  of  Sarah's  dimples.  "  And 
I  am  an  old  fool  to  talk  to  you  like  this.  You 
children  think  that  love  is  reserved  for  boys  and 
girls,  like  you  and — and  Peter." 

"  I  don't  know  what  Peter  has  to  do  with  it," 
said  Sarah,  pouting. 

"  I  heard  Peter  explaining  to  his  tenants  just 
now,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  harsh  laugh,  "that 
he  was  going  to  settle  down  here  for  good  and  all 
— with  his  mother;  that  nothing  was  to  be 
changed  from  his  father's  time.  Something  in  his 
words  would  have  made  me  understand  the  look 
on  his  mother's  face,  even  if  I  hadn't  read  it  right 
— already.  She  will  sacrifice  her  love  for  John 
Crewys  to  her  love  for  her  son ;  and  by  the  time 
Peter  finds  out — as  in  the  course  of  nature  he  will 
find  out — that  he  can  do  without  his  mother,  her 
chance  of  happiness  will  be  gone  for  ever." 

Sarah  looked  a  little  queerly  at  the  doctor. 

"Then  the  sooner  Peter  finds  out,"  she  said 
slowly,  "that  he  can  live  without  his  mother,  the 
better.  Doesn't  that  seem  strange?" 


210  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  doctor,  heavily.  "But 
life  gives  us  so  few  opportunities  of  a  great  happi- 
ness as  we  grow  older,  little  Sarah.  The  possi- 
bilities that  once  seemed  so  boundless,  lie  in  a 
circle  which  narrows  round  us,  day  by  day.  Some 
day  you'll  find  that  out  too." 

There  was  a  sudden  outburst  of  cheering. 

Sarah  started  forward.  "Dr.  Blundell,"  she 
said  energetically,  "you've  told  me  all  I  wanted 
to  know.  She  sha'n't  be  unhappy  if  /  can  help  it. ' ' 

"You!"  said  the  doctor,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders rather  rudely.  "I  don't  see  what  you  can  do. " 

Sarah  reddened  with  lofty  indignation.  "It 
would  be  very  odd  if  you  did,"  she  said  spitefully ; 
"you're  only  a  man,  when  all  is  said  and  done. 
But  if  you'll  only  promise  not  to  interfere,  I'll 
manage  it  beautifully  all  by  myself." 

"What  will  you  do?"  said  the  doctor,  inat- 
tentively; and  his  blindness  to  Sarah's  charms 
and  her  powers  made  her  almost  pity  such  obtuse- 
ness. 

"  I  will  go  and  fetch  Lady  Mary,  for  one  thing, 
and  cheer  her  up." 

"Not  a  word  to  her!"  he  cried,  starting  up; 
"remember,  I  told  you  in  confidence — though 
why  I  was  such  a  fool " 

"  Am  I  likely  to  forget  ? "  said  Sarah ;  "  and  you 
will  see  one  day  whether  you  were  a  fool  to  tell 
me,"  She  said  to  herself,  despairingly,  that  the 
stupidity  of  mankind  was  almost  past  praying  for. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  211 

As  the  doctor  opened  the  door  for  Sarah,  Lady 
Mary  herself  walked  into  the  room. 

She  had  removed  all  traces  of  tears  from  her 
face,  and,  though  she  was  still  very  pale,  she 
was  quite  composed,  and  ready  to  smile  at  them 
both. 

"Were  you  coming  to  fetch  me?"  she  said, 
taking  Sarah's  arm  affectionately.  "Dr.  Blun- 
dell,  I  am  afraid  luncheon  will  be  terribly  late. 
The  servants  have  all  gone  off  their  heads  in  the 
confusion,  as  was  to  be  expected.  The  noise  and 
the  welcome  upset  me  so  that  I  dared  not  go  out 
on  the  terrace  again.  Ash  has  just  been  to  tell 
me  it's  all  over,  and  that  Peter  made  a  capital 
speech ;  quite  as  good  as  Mr.  John's,  he  said ;  but 
that  is  hardly  a  compliment  to  our  K.C.,"  she 
laughed.  "  I'm  afraid  Ash  is  prejudiced." 

"Ash  was  doing  the  honours  with  all  his 
might,"  said  the  doctor,  gruffly ;  "  handing  round 
cider  by  the  hogshead.  Hallo!  the  speeches  must 
be  really  all  over,"  he  said,  for,  above  vociferous 
cheering,  the  strains  of  the  National  Anthem  could 
just  be  discerned. 

Peter  came  striding  across  the  terrace,  and 
looked  in  at  the  open  window. 

"Are  you  better  again,  mother?"  he  called. 
"  Could  you  come  out  now?  They've  done  at  last, 
but  they're  calling  for  you." 

"Yes,  yes;  I'm  quite  ready.  I  won't  be  so 
silly  again,"  said  Lady  Mary. 


212  PETER'S  MOTHER 

But  Peter  did  not  listen.  "Why—"  he  said, 
and  stopped  short. 

"Surely  you  haven't  forgotten  Sarah,"  said 
Lady  Mary,  laughing — "your  little  playmate 
Sarah?  But  perhaps  I  ought  to  say  Miss  Hewel 
now." 

"  How  do  you  do,  Sir  Peter?"  said  Sarah,  in  a 
very  stately  manner.  "  I  am  very  glad  to  be  here 
to  welcome  you  home." 

Peter,  foolishly  embarrassed,  took  the  hand  she 
offered  with  such  gracious  composure,  and  blushed 
all  over  his  thin,  tanned  face. 

"I — I  should  hardly  have  known  you,"  he 
stammered. 

"Really?  "said  Sarah. 

"Won't  you,"  said  Peter,  still  looking  at  her, 
"join  us  on  the  terrace?" 

"The  people  aren't  calling  for  me,"  said 
Sarah. 

"  But  it  might  amuse  you,"  said  Peter,  deferen- 
tially. 

He  put  up  his  eyeglass — but  though  Sarah's 
red  lip  quivered,  she  did  not  laugh. 

"  It's  rather  jolly,  really,"  he  said.  "  They've 
got  banners,  and  flags,  and  processions,  and  things. 
Won't  you  come?" 

"Well — I  will,"  said  Sarah.  She  accepted  his 
help  in  descending  the  step  with  the  air  of  a 
princess.  "  But  they'll  be  so  disappointed  to  see 
me  instead  of  your  mother." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  213 

"Disappointed  to  see  you!"  said  Peter,  stupe- 
fied. 

She  stepped  forth,  laughing,  and  Peter  followed 
her  closely.  John  Crewys  stood  aside  to  let  them 
pass.  Lady  Mary,  half  amazed  and  half  amused, 
realized  suddenly  that  her  son  had  forgotten  he 
came  back  to  fetch  her.  She  hesitated  on  the 
threshold.  More  cheers  and  confused  shouting 
greeted  Peter's  reappearance  on  the  balcony.  He 
turned  and  waved  to  his  mother,  and  the  canon 
came  hurrying  over  the  grass. 

"The  people  are  shouting  for  Lady  Mary; 
they  want  Lady  Mary,"  he  cried. 

John  Crewys  looked  at  her  with  a  smile,  and 
held  out  his  hand,  and  she  stepped  over  the  sill, 
and  went  away  across  the  terrace  garden  with 
him. 

The  doctor  turned  his  face  from  the  crowd,  and 
went  back  alone  into  the  empty  room. 

"Who  doesn't  want  Lady  Mary?"  he  said  to 
himself,  forlornly. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

PETER  stood  on  his  own  front  door  steps,  on  the 
shady  side  of  the  house,  in  the  fresh  air  of  the 
early  morning.  The  unnecessary  eyeglass  twin- 
kled on  his  breast  as  he  looked  forth  upon  the 
goodliness  and  beauty  of  his  inheritance.  The 
ever-encroaching  green  of  summer  had  not  yet 
overpowered  the  white  wealth  of  flowering  spring ; 
for  the  season  was  a  late  one,  and  the  month  of 
June  still  young. 

The  apple-trees  were  yet  in  blossom,  and  the 
snowy  orchards  were  scattered  over  the  hillsides 
between  patches  of  golden  gorse.  The  lilacs, 
white  and  purple,  were  in  flower,  amid  scarlet 
rhododendrons  and  branching  pink  and  yellow 
tree-azaleas.  The  weeping  barberry  showered 
gold  dust  upon  the  road. 

On  the  lower  side  of  the  drive,  the  rolling  grass 
slopes  were  thriftily  left  for  hay ;  a  flowering  mass 
of  daisies,  and  buttercups,  and  red  clover,  and  blue 
speedwell. 

A  long  way  off,  but  still  clearly  visible  in  the 
valley  below,  glistened  the  stone-tiled  roof  of  the 
old  square-towered  church,  guarded  by  its  sentinel 
yews. 

214 


PETER'S  MOTHER  215 

A  great  horse-chestnut  stood  like  a  giant  bou- 
quet of  waxen  bloom  beside  a  granite  monument 
which  threw  a  long  shadow  over  the  green  turf 
mounds  towards  the  west,  and  marked  the  grave 
of  Sir  Timothy  Crewys. 

Peter  saw  that  monument  more  plainly  just 
now  than  all  the  rest  of  his  surroundings,  although 
he  was  short-sighted,  and  although  his  eyes  were 
further  dimmed  by  sudden  tears. 

His  memories  of  his  father  were  not  particu- 
larly tender  ones,  and  his  grief  was  only  natural 
filial  sentiment  in  its  vaguest  and  lightest  form. 
But  such  as  it  was — the  sight  of  the  empty  study, 
which  was  to  be  his  own  room  in  future;  the 
strange  granite  monument  shining  in  the  sun; 
the  rush  of  home  associations  which  the  familiar 
landscape  aroused — augmented  it  for  the  time  be- 
ing, and  made  the  young  man  glad  of  a  moment's 
solitude. 

There  was  the  drooping  ash — which  had  made 
such  a  cool,  refreshing  tent  in  summer — where  he 
had  learnt  his  first  lessons  at  his  mother's  knee, 
and  where  he  had  kept  his  rabbit-hutch  for  a 
season,  until  his  father  had  found  it  out,  and 
despatched  it  to  the  stableyard. 

His  punishments  and  the  troubles  of  his  child- 
hood had  always  been  associated  with  his  father, 
and  its  pleasures  and  indulgences  with  his  mother ; 
but  neither  had  made  any  very  strong  impression 
on  Peter's  mind,  and  it  was  of  his  father  that 


216  PETER'S  MOTHER 

he  thought  with  most  sympathy,  and  even  most 
affection.  Partly,  doubtless,  because  Sir  Timothy 
was  dead,  and  because  Peter's  memories  were  not 
vivid  ones,  any  more  than  his  imagination  was 
vivid ;  but  also  because  his  mind  was  preoccupied 
with  a  vague  resentment  against  his  mother. 

He  could  not  understand  the  change  which  was, 
nevertheless,  so  evident.  Her  new-born  bright- 
ness and  ease  of  manner,  and  her  strangely  in- 
creased loveliness,  which  had  been  yet  more 
apparent  on  the  previous  evening,  when  she  was 
dressed  for  dinner,  than  on  his  first  arrival. 

It  was  absurd,  Peter  thought,  in  all  the  ar- 
rogance of  disdainful  youth,  that  a  woman  of  her 
age  should  have  learnt  to  care  for  her  appearance 
thus;  or  to  wear  becoming  gowns,  and  arrange 
her  hair  like  a  fashion  plate. 

If  it  had  been  Sarah  he  could  have  understood. 

At  the  thought  of  Sarah  the  colour  suddenly 
flushed  across  his  thin,  tanned  face,  and  he  moved 
uneasily. 

Sarah,  too,  was  changed;  but  not  even  Peter 
could  regret  the  change  in  Sarah. 

The  loveliness  of  his  mother,  refined  and  white 
and  delicate  as  she  was,  did  not  appeal  to  him; 
but  Sarah,  in  her  radiant  youth,  with  her  brilliant 
colouring — fresh  as  a  May  morning,  buxom  as  a 
dairymaid,  scornful  as  a  princess — had  struck  Sir 
Peter  dumb  with  admiration,  though  he  had 
hitherto  despised  young  women.  It  almost  en- 


PETER'S  MOTHER  217 

raged  him  to  remember  that  this  stately  beauty 
had  ever  been  an  impudent  little  schoolgirl,  with 
a  turned-up  nose  and  a  red  pigtail.  In  days  gone 
by,  Miss  Sarah  had  actually  fought  and  scratched 
the  spoilt  boy,  who  tried  to  tyrannize  over  his 
playmate  as  he  tyrannized  over  his  mother  and 
his  aunts.  On  the  other  hand,  the  recollection  of 
those  early  days  also  became  precious  to  Peter  for 
the  first  time. 

Sarah! 

It  was  difficult  to  be  sentimental  on  the  subject, 
but  difficulties  are  easily  surmounted  by  a  lover; 
and  though  Sarah's  childhood  afforded  few 
facilities  for  ecstatic  reverie,  still — there  had  been 
moments,  and  especially  towards  the  end  of  the 
holidays,  when  he  and  Sarah  had  walked  on  the 
banks  of  the  river,  with  arms  round  each  other's 
necks,  sharing  each  other's  toffee  and  confidences. 

Poor  Sarah  had  been  first  despatched  to  a 
boarding  school  as  unmanageable,  at  the  age  of 
seven,  and  thereafter  her  life  had  been  a  change- 
ful one,  since  her  father  could  not  live  without  her, 
and  her  mother  would  not  keep  her  at  home.  She 
had  always  presented  a  lively  contrast  to  her  elder 
brothers,  who  were  all  that  a  parent's  heart  could 
desire,  and  too  old  to  be  much  interested  in  their 
little  rebellious  sister. 

Her  high  spirits  survived  disgrace  and  pun- 
ishment and  periodical  banishment.  Though  not 
destitute  of  womanly  qualities,  she  was  more 


218  PETER'S  MOTHER 

remarkable  for  hoydenish  ones ;  and  her  tastes 
were  peculiar  and  varied.  If  there  were  a  pony 
to  break  in,  a  sick  child  to  be  nursed,  a  groom  to 
scold,  a  pig  to  be  killed — there  was  Sarah;  but 
if  a  frock  to  try  on,  a  visit  to  be  paid,  a  note  to  be 
written — where  was  she? 

Peter,  recalling  these  things,  tried  to  laugh  at 
himself  for  his  extraordinary  infatuation  of  the 
previous  day ;  but  he  knew  very  well  in  his  heart 
that  he  could  not  really  laugh,  and  that  he  had  lain 
awake  half  the  night  thinking  of  her. 

Sarah  had  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  at  Barra- 
combe  after  Peter's  return,  and  had  been  escorted 
home  late  in  the  evening.  Could  he  ever  forget 
those  moments  on  the  terrace,  when  she  had  paced 
up  and  down  beside  him,  in  the  pleasant  summer 
darkness;  her  white  neck  and  arms  gleaming 
through  transparent  black  tulle ;  sometimes  listen- 
ing to  the  sounds  of  music  and  revelry  in  the 
village  below,  and  looking  at  the  rockets  that  were 
being  let  off  on  the  river-banks;  and  sometimes 
asking  him  of  the  war,  in  that  low  voice  which 
thrilled  Peter  as  it  had  already  thrilled  not  a  few 
interested  hearers  before  him? 

Those  moments  had  been  all  too  few,  because 
John  Crewys  also  had  monopolized  a  share  of  Miss 
Sarah's  attention.  Peter  did  not  dislike  his 
guardian,  whose  composed  courtesy  and  absolute 
freedom  from  self -consciousness,  or  any  form  of 
affectation,  made  it  difficult  indeed  not  to  like  him. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  219 

His  remarks  made  Peter  smile  in  spite  of  himself, 
though  he  could  not  keep  the  ball  of  conversation 
rolling  like  Miss  Sarah,  who  was  not  at  all  afraid  of 
the  great  counsel,  but  matched  his  pleasant  wit, 
with  a  most  engaging  impudence  all  her  own. 

Lady  Mary  had  stood  clasping  her  son's  arm, 
full  of  thankfulness  for  his  safe  return ;  but  she, 
too,  had  been  unable  to  help  laughing  at  John,  who 
purposely  exerted  himself  to  amuse  her  and  to 
keep  her  from  dwelling  upon  their  parting  on  the 
morrow. 

Her  thoughtful  son  insisted  that  she  must 
avoid  exposure  to  the  night  air,  and  poor  Lady 
Mary  had  somewhat  ruefully  returned  to  the 
society  of  the  old  ladies  within ;  but  John  Crewys 
did  not,  as  he  might,  and  as  Peter  had  supposed  he 
would,  join  the  other  old  folk.  Peter  classed  his 
mother  and  aunts  together,  quite  calmly,  in  his 
thoughts.  He  listened  to  Sarah's  light  talk  with 
John,  watching  her  like  a  man  in  a  dream,  hardly 
able  to  speak  himself ;  and  it  is  needless  to  say  that 
he  found  her  chatter  far  more  interesting  and 
amusing  than  anything  John  could  say. 

Who  could  have  dreamt  that  little  Sarah  would 
grow  up  into  this  bewitching  maiden?  There  was 
a  girl  coming  home  on  board  ship,  the  young  wife 
of  an  officer,  whom  every  one  had  raved  about  and 
called  so  beautiful.  Peter  almost  laughed  aloud 
as  he  contrasted  Sarah  with  his  recollections  of 
this  lady. 


220  PETER'S  MOTHER 

How  easy  it  was  to  talk  to  Sarah!  How  much 
easier  than  to  his  mother ;  whom,  nevertheless,  he 
loved  so  dearly,  though  always  with  that  faint 
dash  of  disapproval  which  somehow  embittered 
his  love. 

He  could  not  shake  off  the  impression  of  her 
first  appearance,  coming  singing  down  the  oak 
staircase,  in  her  white  gown.  His  mother!  Dressed 
almost  like  a  girl,  and,  worst  of  all,  looking  almost 
like  a  girl,  so  slight  and  white  and  delicate.  Peter 
recollected  that  Sir  Timothy  had  been  very  par- 
ticular about  his  wife's  apparel.  He  liked  it  to 
be  costly  and  dignified,  and  she  had  worn  stiff  silks 
and  poplins  inappropriate  to  the  country,  but  con- 
sidered eminently  suited  to  her  position  by  the 
Brawnton  dressmaker.  And  her  hair  had  been 
parted  on  her  forehead,  and  smoothed  over  her 
little  ears.  Sir  Timothy  did  not  approve  of  curl- 
ing-irons and  frippery. 

Peter  did  not  know  that  his  mother  had  cried 
over  her  own  appearance  often,  before  she  be- 
came indifferent ;  and  if  he  had  known,  he  would 
have  thought  it  only  typical  of  the  weakness  and 
frivolity  which  he  had  heard  attributed  to  Lady 
Mary  from  his  earliest  childhood. 

His  aunts  were  not  intentionally  disloyal  to 
their  sister-in-law;  but  their  disapproval  of  her 
was  too  strong  to  be  hidden,  and  they  regarded  a 
little  boy  as  blind  and  deaf  to  all  that  did  not 
directly  concern  his  lessons  or  his  play.  Thus 


PETER'S  MOTHER  221 

Peter  had  grown  up  loving  his  mother,  but  dis- 
approving of  her,  and  the  disapproval  was  some- 
times more  apparent  than  the  love. 

After  breakfast  the  new  squire  took  an  early 
walk  with  his  guardian,  and  inspected  a  few  of  the 
changes  which  had  taken  place  in  the  administra- 
tion of  his  tiny  kingdom.  Though  Peter  was 
young  and  inexperienced,  he  could  not  be  blind  to 
the  immense  improvements  made. 

He  had  left  a  house  and  stables  shabby  and 
tumble-down  and  out  of  repair ;  rotting  woodwork, 
worn-off  paint,  and  missing  tiles  had  been  pain- 
fully evident.  Broken  fences  and  hingeless  gates 
were  the  rule,  and  not  the  exception,  in  the 
grounds. 

Now  all  deficiencies  had  been  made  good  by  a 
cunning  hand  that  had  allowed  no  glaring  newness 
to  be  visible ;  a  hand  that  had  matched  old  tiles, 
and  patched  old  walls,  and  planted  creepers,  and 
restored  an  almost  magical  order  and  comfort  to 
Peter's  beautiful  old  house. 

Where  Sir  Timothy's  grumbling  tenants  had 
walked  to  the  nearest  brook  for  water,  they  now 
found  pipes  brought  to  their  own  cottage  doors. 
The  home-farm,  stables,  yards,  and  cowsheds  were 
drained  and  paved;  fallen  outbuildings  replaced, 
uneven  roads  gravelled  and  rolled ;  dead  trees  re- 
moved, and  young  ones  planted,  shrubberies 
trimmed,  and  views  long  obscured  once  more 
opened  out. 


222  PETER'S  MOTHER 

Peter  did  not  need  the  assurances  of  Mr.  Craw- 
ley  to  be  aware  that  his  inheritance  would  be 
handed  back  to  him  improved  a  thousand-fold. 

He  was  astounded  to  find  how  easily  John 
had  arranged  matters  over  which  his  father  had 
grumbled  and  hesitated  for  years.  Even  the  dis- 
pute with  the  Crown  had  been  settled  by  Mr. 
Crawley  without  difficulty,  now  that  Sir  Timothy's 
obstinacy  no  longer  stood  in  the  way  of  a  reason- 
able compromise. 

John  Crewys  had  faithfully  carried  out  the  in- 
structions of  the  will ;  and  there  were  many  thou- 
sands yet  left  of  the  sum  placed  at  his  disposal  for 
the  improvements  of  the  estate ;  a  surplus  which 
would  presently  be  invested  for  Peter's  benefit, 
and  added  to  that  carefully  tied-up  capital  over 
which  Sir  Timothy  had  given  his  heir  no  discre- 
tionary powers. 

Peter  spent  a  couple  of  hours  walking  about 
with  John,  and  took  an  intelligent  interest  in  all 
that  had  been  done,  from  the  roof  and  chimney- 
pots of  the  house,  to  the  new  cider-mill  and  stable 
fittings ;  but  though  he  was  civil  and  amiable,  he 
expressed  no  particular  gratitude  nor  admiration 
on  his  return  to  the  hall,  where  his  mother  eagerly 
awaited  him. 

It  consoled  her  to  perceive  that  he  was  on  ex- 
cellent terms  with  his  guardian,  offering  to  accom- 
pany him  in  the  dog-cart  to  Brawnton,  whither 
John  was  bound,  to  catch  the  noon  express  to  town. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  223 

"You  will  have  him  all  to  yourself  after  this," 
said  John  Crewys,  smiling  down  upon  Lady  Mary 
during  his  brief  farewell  interview,  which  took 
place  in  the  oriel  window  of  the  banqueting-hall, 
within  sight,  though  not  within  hearing,  of  the 
two  old  sisters.  "  I  am  sorry  to  take  him  off  to 
Brawnton,  but  I  could  hardly  refuse  his  com- 
pany." 

"No,  no;  I  am  only  glad  you  should  take 
every  opportunity  of  knowing  him  better,"  she 
said. 

"  And  you  will  be  happier  without  any  divided 
feelings  at  stake,"  he  said.  "Give  yourself  up 
entirely  to  Peter  for  the  next  three  or  four  months, 
without  any  remorse  concerning  me.  For  the 
present,  at  least,  I  shall  be  hard  at  work,  with 
little  enough  time  to  spare  for  sentiment."  There 
was  a  tender  raillery  in  his  tone,  which  she  under- 
stood. "When  I  come  back  we  will  face  the 
situation,  according  to  circumstances.  By-the- 
by,  I  suppose  it  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  Miss 
Sarah  should  prolong  her  Whitsuntide  holidays 
much  further?" 

"She  ought  to  have  returned  to  town  earlier, 
but  Mrs.  Hewel  was  ill,"  said  Lady  Mary.  "She 
is  a  tiresome  woman.  She  moved  heaven  and 
earth  to  get  rid  of  poor  Sarah,  and,  now  the  child 
has  had  a  succ&s,  she  is  always  clamouring  for  her 
to  come  back." 

"Ah!"  said  John,  thoughtfully,  "and  you  will 


224  PETER'S  MOTHER 

moot  to  Peter  the  scheme  for  taking  a  house  in 
town?  But  I  should  advise  you  to  be  guided  by 
his  wishes  over  that.  Still,  it  would  be  very  de- 
lightful to  meet  during  our  time  of  waiting;  and 
that  would  be  the  only  way.  I  won't  come  down 
here  again  until  I  can  declare  myself.  It  is  a — 
false  position,  under  the  circumstances." 

"I  know;  I  understand,"  said  Lady  Mary; 
"but  I  am  afraid  Peter  won't  want  to  stir  from 
home.  He  is  so  glad  to  be  back,  poor  boy,  one 
can  hardly  blame  him;  and  he  shares  his  father's 
prejudices  against  London." 

"Does  he,  indeed?"  said  John,  rather  dryly. 
"  Well,  make  the  most  of  your  summer  with  him. 
You  will  get  only  too  much  London — in  the  near 
future." 

"Perhaps,"  Lady  Mary  said,  smiling. 

But,  in  spite  of  herself,  John's  confidence  com- 
municated itself  to  her. 

When  Peter  and  John  had  departed,  Lady 
Mary  went  and  sat  alone  in  the  quiet  of  the 
fountain  garden,  at  the  eastern  end  of  the  terrace. 
The  thick  hedges  and  laurels  which  sheltered  it 
had  been  duly  thinned  and  trimmed,  to  allow  the 
entrance  of  the  morning  sunshine.  Roses  and 
lilies  bloomed  brightly  round  the  fountain  now, 
but  it  was  still  rather  a  lonely  and  deserted  spot, 
and  silent,  save  for  the  sighing  of  the  wind,  and 
the  tinkle  of  the  dropping  water  in  the  stone  basin. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  225 

A  young  copper  beech,  freed  from  its  rankly 
increasing  enemies  of  branching  laurel  and  en- 
croaching bramble,  now  spread  its  glory  of  trans- 
parent ruddy  leaf  in  the  sunshine  above  trim 
hedges,  here  and  there  diversified  by  the  pale  gold 
of  a  laburnum,  or  the  violet  clusters  of  a  rhodo- 
dendron in  full  flower.  Rare  ferns  fringed  the 
edges  of  the  little  fountain,  where  diminutive 
reptiles  whisked  in  and  out  of  watery  homes,  or 
sat  motionless  on  the  brink,  with  fixed,  glassy 
eyes. 

Lady  Mary  had  come  often  to  this  quiet  corner 
for  rest  and  peace  and  solitude  in  days  gone  by. 
She  came  often  still,  because  she  had  a  fancy  that 
the  change  in  her  favourite  garden  was  typical  of 
the  change  in  her  life, — the  letting-in  of  the  sun- 
shine, where  before  there  had  been  only  deepest 
shade;  the  pinks  and  forget-me-nots  which  were 
gaily  blowing,  where  only  moss  and  fungi  had 
flourished;  the  blooming  of  the  roses,  where  the 
undergrowth  had  crossed  and  recrossed  withered 
branches  above  bare,  black  soil. 

She  brought  her  happiness  here,  where  she  had 
brought  her  sorrow  and  her  repinings  long  ago. 

A  happiness  subdued  by  many  memories, 
chastened  by  long  anxiety,  obscured  by  many 
doubts,  but  still  happiness. 

There  was  to  be  no  more  of  that  heart-breaking 
anxiety.  Her  boy  had  been  spared  to  come  home 
to  her ;  and  John — John,  who  always  understood, 


226  PETER'S  MOTHER 

had  declared  that,  for  the  present,  at  least,  Peter 
must  come  first. 

The  whole  beautiful  summer  lay  before  her,  in 
which  she  was  to  be  free  to  devote  herself  to  her 
wounded  hero.  She  must  set  herself  to  charm 
away  that  shadow  of  discontent — of  disapproval 
— that  darkened  Peter's  grey  eyes  when  they 
rested  upon  her ;  a  shadow  of  which  she  had  been 
only  too  conscious  even  before  he  went  to  South 
Africa. 

She  made  a  thousand  excuses  for  him,  after 
telling  herself  that  he  needed  none. 

Poor  boy!  he  had  been  brought  up  in  such  nar- 
row ways,  such  an  atmosphere  of  petty  distrust 
and  fault-finding  and  small  aims.  Even  his  bold 
venture  into  the  world  of  men  had  not  enabled 
him  to  shake  off  altogether  the  influence  of  his 
early  training,  though  it  had  changed  him  so  much 
for  the  better;  it  had  not  altogether  cured  Peter 
of  his  old  ungraciousness,  partly  inherited,  and 
partly  due  to  example. 

But  he  had  returned  full  of  love  and  tenderness 
and  penitence,  though  his  softening  had  been  but 
momentary ;  and  when  she  had  brought  him  under 
the  changed  influences  which  now  dominated  her 
own  life,  she  could  not  doubt  that  Peter's  nature 
would  expand. 

He  should  see  that  home  life  need  not  neces- 
sarily be  gloomy ;  that  all  innocent  pleasures  and 
interests  were  to  be  encouraged,  and  not  repressed. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  227 

If  he  wanted  to  spend  the  summer  at  home — and 
after  his  long  absence  what  could  be  more  natural? 
— she  would  exert  herself  to  make  that  home  as 
attractive  as  possible.  Why  should  they  not 
entertain?  John  had  said  there  was  plenty  of 
money.  Peter  should  have  other  young  people 
about  him.  She  remembered  a  scene,  long  ago, 
when  he  had  brought  a  boy  of  his  own  age  in  to 
lunch  without  permission.  She  would  have  to 
let  Peter  understand  how  welcome  she  should 
make  his  friends;  he  must  have  many  more 
friends  now.  While  she  was  yet  chdtelaine  of 
Barracombe,  it  would  be  delightful  to  imbue  him 
with  some  idea  of  the  duties  and  pleasures  of 
hospitality.  Lady  Mary's  eyes  sparkled  at  the 
thought  of  providing  entertainment  for  many 
young  soldiers,  wounded  or  otherwise.  They 
should  have  the  best  of  everything.  She  was 
rich,  and  Peter  was  rich,  and  there  was  no  harm 
in  making  visitors  welcome  in  that  great  house, 
and  filling  the  rooms,  that  had  been  silent  and 
empty  so  long,  with  the  noise  and  laughter  of 
young  people. 

She  would  ask  Peter  about  the  horses  to- 
morrow. John  had  purposely  refrained  from 
filling  the  stables  which  had  been  so  carefully  re- 
stored and  fitted.  There  were  very  few  horses. 
Only  the  cob  for  the  dog-cart,  and  a  pair  for  the 
carriage,  so  old  that  the  coachman  declared  it  was 
tempting  Providence  to  sit  behind  them.  They 


228  PETER'S  MOTHER 

were  calculated  to  have  attained  their  twentieth 
year,  and  were  driven  at  a  slow  jog-trot  for  a 
couple  of  hours  every  day,  except  Sundays,  in  the 
barouche.  James  Coachman  informed  Lady  Bel- 
stone  and  Miss  Crewys  that  either  steed  was  liable 
to  drop  down  dead  at  any  moment,  and  that  they 
could  not  expect  the  best  of  horses  to  last  for 
ever ;  but  the  old  ladies  would  neither  shorten  nor 
abandon  their  afternoon  drive,  nor  consent  to  the 
purchase  of  a  new  pair.  They  continued  to  be- 
have as  though  horses  were  immortal. 

Sir  Timothy's  old  black  mare  was  turned  out  to 
graze,  partly  from  sentiment,  and  partly  because 
she,  too,  was  unfitted  for  any  practical  purposes; 
and  Peter  had  outgrown  his  pony  before  he  went 
away,  though  he  had  ridden  it  to  hounds  many 
times,  unknown  to  his  father.  Lady  Mary  thought 
it  would  be  a  pleasure  to  see  her  boy  well  mounted 
and  the  stables  filled.  John  had  said  that  the  loss 
of  his  arm  would  certainly  not  prevent  Peter  from 
riding.  She  found  herself  constantly  referring  to 
John,  even  in  her  plans  for  Peter's  amusement. 

Strong,  calm,  patient  John — who  was  prepared 
to  wait;  and  who  would  not,  as  he  said,  snatch 
happiness  at  the  expense  of  other  people's  feelings. 
How  wise  he  had  been  to  agree  that,  for  the  present, 
she  must  devote  herself  only  to  Peter!  She  and 
Peter  would  be  all  in  all  to  each  other  as  Peter  him- 
self had  suggested,  and  as  she  had  once  dreamed 
her  son  would  be  to  his  mother ;  though,  of  course, 


PETER'S  MOTHER  229 

it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  a  boy  could  under- 
stand everything,  like  John. 

She  must  make  great  allowances ;  she  must  be 
patient  of  his  inherited  prejudices ;  above  all,  she 
must  make  him  happy. 

Afterwards,  perhaps,  when  Peter  had  learned 
to  do  without  her — as  he  would  learn  too  surely  in 
the  course  of  nature — she  would  be  free  to  turn  to 
John,  and  put  her  hand  in  his,  and  let  him  lead  her 
whithersoever  he  would. 

Peter  saw  his  guardian  off  at  Brawnton,  duti- 
fully standing  at  attention  on  the  platform  until 
the  train  had  departed,  instead  of  starting  home 
as  John  suggested. 

When  he  came  out  of  the  station  he  stood  still 
for  a  moment,  contemplating  the  stout,  brown 
cob  and  the  slim  groom,  who  was  waiting  anxiously 
to  know  whether  Sir  Peter  would  take  the  reins, 
or  whether  he  was  to  have  the  honour  of  driving 
his  master  home. 

"I  think  I'll  walk  back,  George,"  said  Peter, 
with  a  nonchalant  air.  "Take  the  cob  along 
quietly,  and  let  her  ladyship  know  directly  you 
get  in  that  I'm  returning  by  Hewelscourt  woods, 
and  the  ferry." 

"Very  good,  Sir  Peter,"  said  the  youth,  zeal- 
ously. 

"  It  would  be  only  civil  to  look  in  on  the  Hewels 
as  Sarah  is  going  back  to  town  so  soon,"  said 
Peter  to  himself.  "  And  it's  rot  driving  all  those 


230  PETER'S  MOTHER 

miles  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  river,  when  it's 
barely  three  miles  from  here  to  Hewelscourt  and 
the  ferry,  and  in  the  shade  all  the  way.  I  shall  be 
back  almost  as  soon  as  the  cart." 

A  little  old  lady,  dressed  in  shabby  black  silk, 
looked  up  from  the  corner  of  the  sofa  next  the 
window,  when  Peter  entered  the  drawing-room  at 
Hewelscourt,  after  the  usual  delay,  apologies,  and 
barking  of  dogs  which  attends  the  morning  caller 
at  the  front  door  of  the  average  country  house. 

Peter,  who  had  expected  to  see  Mrs.  Hewel  and 
Sarah,  repented  himself  for  a  moment  that  he  had 
come  at  all  when  he  beheld  this  stranger,  who  re- 
garded him  with  a  pair  of  dark  eyes  that  seemed 
several  times  too  large  for  her  small,  wrinkled 
face,  and  who  merely  nodded  her  head  in  response 
to  his  awkward  salutation. 

"Ah!"  said  the  old  lady,  rather  as  though  she 
were  talking  to  herself,  "so  this  is  the  returned 
hero,  no  doubt.  How  do  you  do?  The  rejoicing 
over  your  home-coming  kept  me  awake  half  the 
night." 

Peter  was  rather  offended  at  this  free-and- 
easy  method  of  address.  It  seemed  to  him  that, 
since  the  old  lady  evidently  knew  who  he  was,  she 
might  be  a  little  more  respectful  in  her  manner. 

"The  festivities  were  all  over  soon  after 
eleven,"  he  said  stiffly.  "  But  perhaps  you  are  ac- 
customed to  early  hours?" 


PETER'S  MOTHER  231 

"  Perhaps  I  am,"  said  the  old  lady ;  she  seemed 
more  amused  than  abashed  by  Peter's  dignity  of 
demeanour.  "At  any  rate,  I  like  my  beauty 
sleep  to  be  undisturbed;  more  especially  in  the 
country,  where  there  are  so  many  noises  to 
wake  one  up  from  four  o'clock  in  the  morning 
onwards." 

"I  have  always  understood,"  said  Peter,  who 
inherited  his  father's  respect  for  platitudes,  "  that 
the  country  was  much  quieter  than  the  town.  I 
suppose  you  live  in  a  town?" 

"  I  suppose  I  do,"  said  the  old  lady. 

Peter  put  up  his  eyeglass  indignantly,  to  quell 
this  disrespectful  old  woman  with  a  frigid  look, 
modelled  upon  the  expression  of  his  board-ship 
hero. 

The  door  opened  suddenly. 

He  dropped  his  eyeglass  with  a  start.  But  it 
was  only  Mrs.  Hewel  who  entered,  and  not  Sarah, 
after  all. 

Her  embonpoint,  and  consequently  her  breath- 
lessness,  had  much  increased  since  Peter  saw  her 
last. 

"Oh,  Peter,"  she  cried,  "this  is  nice  of  you  to 
come  over  and  see  us  so  soon.  We  were  wonder- 
ing if  you  would.  Dear,  dear,  how  thankful  your 
mother  must  be!  I  know  what  I  was  with  the 
boys — and  decorated  and  all — though  poor  Tom 
and  Willie  got  nothing;  but,  as  the  papers  said, 
it  wasn't  always  those  who  deserved  it  most — 


232  PETER'S  MOTHER 

still,  I'm  glad  you  got  something,  anyway;  it's 
little  enough,  I'm  sure,  to  make  up  for — "  Then 
she  turned  nervously  to  the  old  lady.  "Aunt 
Elizabeth,  this  is  Sir  Peter  Crewys,  who  came 
home  last  night." 

"  I  have  already  made  acquaintance  with  Sir 
Peter,  since  you  left  me  to  entertain  him,"  said 
the  old  lady,  nodding  affably. 

"Lady  Tintern  arrived  unexpectedly  by  the 
afternoon  train  yesterday,"  explained  Mrs.  Hewel, 
in  her  flustered  manner,  turning  once  more  to 
Peter.  "She  has  only  been  here  twice  before. 
It  was  such  a  surprise  to  Sarah  to  find  her  here 
when  she  came  back." 

Peter  grew  very  red.  Who  could  have  sup- 
posed that  this  shabby  old  person,  whom  he  had 
endeavoured  to  snub,  was  the  great  Lady  Tin- 
tern? 

"She  didn't  find  me,"  said  the  old  lady.  "I 
was  in  bed  long  before  Sarah  came  back.  I  pre- 
sume this  young  gentleman  escorted  her  home?" 

"  I  always  send  a  servant  across  for  Sarah 
whenever  she  stays  at  all  late  at  Barracombe,  and 
always  have,"  said  Mrs.  Hewel,  in  hurried  self- 
defence.  "You  must  remember  we  are  old 
friends ;  there  never  was  any  formality  about  her 
visits  to  Barracombe." 

"  My  guardian  and  I  walked  down  to  the  ferry, 
and  saw  her  across  the  river,  of  course,"  said 
Peter,  rather  sulkily. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  233 

"But  her  maid  was  with  her,"  cried  Mrs. 
Hewel. 

"Of  course,"  Peter  said  again,  in  tones  that 
were  none  too  civil. 

After  all,  who  was  Lady  Tintern  that  she 
should  call  him  to  task?  And  as  if  there  could  be 
any  reason  why  her  oldest  playmate  should  not 
see  Sarah  home  if  he  chose. 

At  the  very  bottom  of  Peter's  heart  lurked  an 
inborn  conviction  that  his  father's  son  was  a  very 
much  more  important  personage  than  any  Hewel, 
or  relative  of  Hewel,  could  possibly  be. 

"That  was  very  kind  of  you  and  your  guard- 
ian," said  the  old  lady,  suddenly  becoming  gra- 
cious. "Emily,  I  will  leave  you  to  talk  to  your 
old  friend.  I  dare  say  I  shall  see  him  again  at 
luncheon?" 

"  I  cannot  stay  to  luncheon.  My  mother  is 
expecting  me,"  said  Peter. 

He  would  not  express  any  thanks.  What 
business  had  the  presuming  old  woman  to  invite 
him  to  luncheon?  It  was  not  her  house,  after  all. 

"  Oh,  your  mother  is  expecting  you,"  said  Lady 
Tintern,  whose  slightly  derisive  manner  of  repeat- 
ing Peter's  words  embarrassed  and  annoyed  the 
young  gentleman  exceedingly.  "  I  am  glad  you 
are  such  a  dutiful  son,  Sir  Peter." 

She  gathered  together  her  letters  and  her  black 
draperies,  and  tottered  off  to  the  door,  which 
Peter,  who  was  sadly  negligent  of  les  petits  soins 


234  PETER'S  MOTHER 

forgot  to  open  for  her ;  nor  did  he  observe  the  in- 
dignant look  she  favoured  him  with  in  conse- 
quence. 

Sarah  came  into  the  drawing-room  at  last; 
fresh  as  the  morning  dew,  in  her  summer  muslin 
and  fluttering,  embroidered  ribbons;  with  a 
bunch  of  forget-me-nots,  blue  as  her  eyes,  nestling 
beneath  her  round,  white  chin.  Her  bright  hair 
was  curled  round  her  pretty  ears  and  about  her 
fair  throat,  but  Peter  did  not  compare  this  coiffure 
to  a  fashion  plate,  though,  indeed,  it  exactly  re- 
sembled one.  Neither  did  he  cast  the  severely 
critical  glance  upon  Sarah's  toilette  that  he  had 
bestowed  upon  the  soft,  grey  gown,  and  the 
cluster  of  white  moss-rosebuds  which  poor  Lady 
Mary  had  ventured  to  wear  that  morning. 

"  How  have  you  managed  to  offend  Aunt 
Elizabeth,  Peter?"  cried  Sarah,  with  her  usual 
frankness.  "She  is  in  the  worst  of  humours." 

"Sarah!"  said  her  mother,  reprovingly. 

"Well,  but  she  w,"  said  Sarah.  "She  called 
him  a  cub  and  a  bear,  and  all  sorts  of  things." 

She  looked  at  Peter  and  laughed,  and  he 
laughed  back.  The  cloud  of  sullenness  had  lifted 
from  his  brow  as  she  appeared. 

Mrs.  Hewel  overwhelmed  him  with  unneces- 
sary apologies.  She  could  not  grasp  the  fact  that 
her  polite  conversation  was  as  dull  and  unmeaning 
to  the  young  man  as  Sarah's  indiscreet  nothings 
were  interesting  and  delightful. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  235 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  mind,"  said  Peter;  and  his 
tone  was  quite  alert  and  cheerful.  "  She  told  me 
the  country  kept  her  awake.  If  she  doesn't  like 
it,  why  does  she  come?" 

"  She  has  come  to  fetch  me  away,"  said  Sarah. 
"  And  she  came  unexpectedly,  because  she  wanted 
to  see  for  herself  whether  mamma  was  really  ill, 
or  whether  she  was  only  shamming." 

"Sarah!" 

"And  she  has  decided  she  is  only  shamming," 
said  Sarah.  "  Unluckily,  mamma  happened  to  be 
down  in  the  stables,  doctoring  Venus.  You  re- 
member Venus,  her  pet  spaniel?" 

"Of  course." 

"Nothing  else  would  have  taken  me  off  my 
sofa,  where  I  ought  to  be  lying  at  this  moment,  as 
you  know  very  well,  Sarah,"  cried  Mrs.  Hewel, 
showing  an  inclination  to  shed  tears. 

"To  be  sure  you  ought,"  said  Sarah;  "but 
what  is  the  use  of  telling  Aunt  Elizabeth  that, 
when  she  saw  you  with  her  own  eyes  racing  up  and 
down  the  stable-yard,  with  a  piece  of  raw  meat  in 
your  hand,  and  Venus  galloping  after  you." 

"The  vet  said  that  if  she  took  no  exercise 
she  would  die,"  said  Mrs.  Hewel,  tearfully,  "and 
neither  he  nor  Jones  could  get  her  to  move.  Not 
even  Ash,  though  he  has  known  her  all  her  life.  I 
know  it  was  very  bad  for  me ;  but  what  could  I 
do?" 

"  I  wish  I  had  been  there,"  said  Sarah,  giggling ; 


236  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  but,  however,  Aunt  Elizabeth  described  it  all  to 
me  so  graphically  this  morning  that  it  is  almost  as 
good  as  though  I  had  been." 

"She  should  not  have  come  down  like  that, 
without  giving  us  a  notion,"  said  Mrs.  Hewel, 
resentfully. 

"If  she  had  only  warned  us,  you  could  have 
been  lying  on  a  sofa,  with  the  blinds  down,  and 
I  could  have  been  holding  your  hand  and  shak- 
ing a  medicine-bottle,"  said  Sarah.  "That  is 
how  she  expected  to  find  us,  she  said,  from  your 
letters." 

"  I  am  sure  I  scarcely  refer  to  my  weak  health 
in  my  letters,"  said  Mrs.  Hewel,  plaintively,  "and 
it  is  natural  I  should  like  my  only  daughter  to  be 
with  me  now  and  then.  Aunt  Elizabeth  has  never 
had  a  child  herself,  and  cannot  understand  the 
feelings  of  a  mother." 

Sarah  and  Peter  exchanged  a  fleeting  glance. 
She  shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly,  and  Peter 
looked  at  his  boots.  They  understood  each  other 
perfectly. 

Freshly  to  the  recollection  of  both  rose  the 
lamentations  of  a  little  red-haired  girl,  banished 
from  the  Eden  of  her  beloved  home,  and  con- 
demned to  a  cheap  German  school.  Mrs.  Hewel, 
in  her  palmiest  days,  had  never  found  it  necessary 
to  race  up  and  down  the  stable-yard  to  amuse 
Sarah;  and  when  her  only  daughter  developed 
scarlatina,  she  had  removed  herself  and  her 


PETER'S  MOTHER  237 

spaniels  from  home  for  months  to  escape  infec- 
tion. 

"Here  is  papa,"  said  Sarah,  breaking  the 
silence.  "He  was  so  vexed  to  be  out  when  you 
arrived  yesterday.  He  heard  nothing  of  it  till  he 
came  back." 

Colonel  Hewel  walked  in  through  the  open 
window,  with  his  dog  at  his  heels.  He  was  de- 
lighted to  welcome  his  young  neighbour  home.  A 
short,  sturdy  man,  with  red  whiskers,  plentiful 
stiff  hair,  and  bright,  dark  blue  eyes.  From  her 
father  Sarah  had  inherited  her  colouring,  her  short 
nose,  and  her  unfailing  good  spirits. 

"  I  would  have  come  over  to  welcome  you,"  he 
said,  shaking  Peter's  hand  cordially,  "  only  when  I 
came  home  there  was  all  the  upset  of  Lady  Tin- 
tern's  arrival,  and  half  a  hundred  things  to  be  done 
to  make  her  sufficiently  comfortable.  And  then 
I  would  have  come  to  fetch  Sarah  after  dinner, 
only  I  couldn't  be  sure  she  mightn't  have  started ; 
and  if  I'd  gone  down  by  the  road,  ten  to  one  she'd 
have  come  up  by  the  path  through  the  woods. 
So  I  just  sat  down  and  smoked  my  pipe,  and 
waited  for  her  to  come  back.  You'll  stay  to 
lunch,  eh,  Peter?" 

"I  must  get  back  to  my  mother,  sir,"  said 
Peter.  His  respect  for  Sarah's  father,  who  had 
once  commanded  a  cavalry  regiment,  had  in- 
creased a  thousand-fold  since  he  last  saw  Colonel 
Hewel.  "  But  won't  you — I  mean  she'd  be  very 


238  PETER'S  MOTHER 

glad — I  wish  you'd  come  over  and  dine  to-night, 
all  of  you — as  you  could  not  come  yesterday 
evening?" 

Thus  Peter  delivered  his  first  invitation, 
blushing  with  eagerness. 

"I'm  afraid  we  couldn't  leave  Lady  Tintern — 
or  persuade  her  to  come  with  us,"  said  the  colonel, 
shaking  his  head.  Then  he  brightened  up.  "  But 
as  soon  as  she  and  Sally  have  toddled  back  to 
town  I  see  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  come,  eh, 
Emily?"  he  said,  turning  to  his  wife. 

Peter  looked  rather  blank,  and  a  laugh 
trembled  on  Sarah's  pretty  lips. 

"  You  know  I'm  not  strong  enough  to  dine  out, 
Tom,"  said  his  wife,  peevishly.  "I  can't  drive 
so  far,  and  I'm  terrified  of  the  ferry  at  night,  with 
those  slippery  banks." 

"Well,  well,  there's  plenty  of  time  before  us. 
Later  on  you  may  get  better ;  and  I  don't  suppose 
you'll  be  running  away  again  in  a  hurry,  eh, 
Peter?"  said  the  colonel.  "I'm  told  you  made  a 
capital  speech  yesterday  about  sticking  to  your 
home,  and  living  on  your  land,  as  your  father, 
poor  fellow,  did  before  you." 

"  I  wish  Sarah  felt  as  you  do,  Peter,"  said  Mrs. 
Hewel;  "but,  of  course,  she  has  grown  too  grand 
for  us,  who  live  contentedly  in  the  country  all  the 
year  round.  Her  home  is  nothing  to  her  now,  it 
seems ;  and  the  only  thing  she  thinks  of  is  rushing 
back  to  London  again  as  fast  as  she  can." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  239 

Sarah,  contrary  to  her  wont,  received  this  at- 
tack in  silence ;  but  she  bestowed  a  fond  squeeze 
on  her  father's  arm,  and  cast  an  appealing  glance 
at  Peter,  which  caused  the  hero's  heart  to  leap  in 
his  bosom. 

"Of  course  I  mean  to  live  at  Barracombe," 
said  Peter,  polishing  his  eyeglass  with  reckless 
energy.  "  But  I  said  nothing  to  the  people  about 
living  there  all  the  year  round.  On  the  contrary, 
I  think  it  more  probable  that  I  shall — run  up  to 
town  myself,  occasionally — just  for  the  season." 


CHAPTER  XV 

ON  a  perfect  summer  afternoon  in  mid- July,  Lady 
Mary  sat  in  the  terrace  garden  at  Barracombe,  be- 
fore the  open  windows  of  the  silent  house,  in  the 
shade  of  the  great  ilex ;  sometimes  glancing  at  the 
book  she  held,  and  sometimes  watching  the  hay- 
makers in  the  valley,  whose  voices  and  laughter 
reached  her  faintly  across  the  distance. 

Some  boys  were  playing  cricket  in  a  field  be- 
low. She  noted  idly  that  the  sound  of  the  ball  on 
the  bat  travelled  but  slowly  upward,  and  reached 
her  after  the  striker  had  begun  to  run.  The  effect 
was  curious,  but  it  was  not  new  to  her,  though  she 
listened  and  counted  with  idle  interest. 

The  old  sisters  had  departed  for  their  daily 
drive,  which  she  daily  declined  to  share,  having  no 
love  %  for  the  high-road,  and  much  for  the  peace 
which  their  absence  brought  her. 

It  was  an  afternoon  which  made  mere  existence 
a  delight  amid  such  surroundings. 

Long  shadows  were  falling  across  the  bend  of 
the  river,  below  the  wooded  hill  which  faced  the 
south-west;  whilst  the  cob-built,  whitewashed 
cottages,  and  the  brown,  square-towered  church 

240 


PETER'S  MOTHER  241 

lay  full  in  sunshine  still.  The  red  cattle  stood 
knee-deep  in  the  shallows,  and  an  old  boat  was 
moored  high  and  dry  upon  the  sloping  red  banks. 

The  air  was  sweet  with  a  thousand  mingled 
scents  of  summer  flowers:  carnations,  stocks, 
roses,  and  jasmine.  The  creamy  clusters  of  Per- 
petual Felicity  rioted  over  the  corner  turret  of  the 
terrace,  where  a  crumbling  stair  led  to  the  top  of 
a  small,  half-ruined  observatory,  which  tradition 
called  the  look-out  tower. 

Flights  of  steps  led  downwards  from  the  gar- 
den, where  the  bedded-out  plants  blazed  in  all 
their  glory  of  ordered  colour,  to  the  walks  on  the 
lower  levels.  Here  were  long  herbaceous  borders, 
backed  by  the  mighty  sloping  walls  of  old  red 
sandstone,  which,  like  an  ancient  fortification, 
supported  the  terrace  above. 

The  blue  larkspur  flourished  beside  scarlet 
gladioli,  feather-headed  spirea,  and  hardy  fuch- 
sia. There  were  no  straight  lines,  nor  any  order  of 
planting.  The  Madonna  lilies  stood  in  groups, 
lifting  up  on  thin,  ragged  stems  their  pure  and 
spotless  clusters,  and  overpowering  with  their 
heavy  scent  the  fainter  fragrance  of  the  mignon- 
ette. Tall,  green  hollyhocks  towered  higher  yet, 
holding  the  secret  of  their  loveliness,  until  these 
should  wither;  when  they  too  would  burst  into 
blossom,  and  forestall  the  round-budded  dahlia. 

In  the  silence,  many  usually  unheeded  sounds 
made  themselves  very  plainly  heard. 

16 


242  PETER'S  MOTHER 

The  tapping  of  the  great  magnolia -leaves  upon 
the  windows  of  the  south  front ;  the  rustling  of  the 
ilex ;  the  ceaseless  murmur  of  the  river ;  the  near 
twittering  or  distant  song  of  innumerable  birds; 
the  steady  hum  of  the  saw-mill  below ;  the  call  of 
the  poultry-woman  at  the  home-farm,  and  the 
shrieking  response  of  a  feathered  horde  flying  and 
fighting  for  their  food — sounds  all  so  familiar  as 
to  pass  unnoticed,  save  in  the  absence  of  com- 
panionship. 

As  Lady  Mary  mused  alone,  she  could  not  but 
recall  other  summer  afternoons,  when  she  had  not 
felt  less  lonely  because  her  husband's  voice  might 
at  any  moment  break  the  silence,  and  summon 
her  to  his  side.  Days  when  Peter  had  been  absent 
at  school,  instead  of,  as  now,  at  play;  and  when 
the  old  ladies  had  also  been  absent,  taking  their 
regular  and  daily  drive  in  the  big  barouche. 

Then  she  had  prized  and  coveted  the  solitude 
of  a  summer  afternoon  on  the  lawn,  and  had 
stolen  away  to  read  and  dream  undisturbed  in  the 
shadow  of  the  ilex. 

It  was  now,  when  no  vexatious  restraint  was 
exercised  over  her — when  there  was  no  one  to  re- 
prove her  for  dreaming,  or  to  criticize  or  forbid 
her  chosen  book — that  solitude  had  become  dis- 
tasteful to  her.  She  was  restless  and  dissatisfied, 
and  the  misty  sunlit  landscape  had  lost  its  charm, 
and  her  book  its  power  of  enchaining  her  attention. 

She  had  tasted  the  joy  of  real  companionship ; 


PETER'S  MOTHER  243 

the  charm  of  real  sympathy;  of  the  fearless  ex- 
change of  ideas  with  one  whose  outlook  upon  life 
was  as  broad  and  charitable  as  Sir  Timothy's  had 
been  narrow  and  prejudiced. 

She  had  scarcely  dared  to  acknowledge  to  her- 
self how  dear  John  Crewys  had  become  to  her, 
even  though  she  knew  that  she  rested  thankfully 
upon  the  certainty  of  his  love;  that  she  trusted 
him  in  all  things ;  that  she  was  in  utter  sympathy 
with  all  his  thoughts  and  words  and  ways. 

Yet  she  had  wished  him  to  go,  that  she  might 
be  free  to  devote  herself  to  her  boy — to  be  very 
sure  that  she  was  not  a  light  and  careless  mother, 
ready  to  abandon  her  son  at  the  first  call  of  a 
stranger. 

And  John  Crewys  had  understood  as  another 
might  not  have  understood.  His  clear  head  and 
great  heart  had  divined  her  feelings,  though  per- 
haps he  would  never  quite  know  how  passionately 
grateful  she  was  because  he  had  divined  them; 
because  he  had  in  no  way  fallen  short  of  the  man 
he  had  seemed  to  be. 

She  had  sacrificed  John  to  Peter;  and  John, 
who  had  shown  so  much  wisdom  and  delicacy  in 
leaving  her  alone  with  her  son,  was  avenged ;  for 
only  his  absence  could  have  made  clear  to  her  how 
he  had  grown  into  the  heart  she  had  guarded  so 
jealously  for  Peter's  sake. 

She  knew  now  that  Peter's  companionship 
made  her  more  lonely  than  utter  solitude. 


244  PETER'S  MOTHER 

The  joie  de  vivre,  which  had  distinguished  her 
early  days,  and  was  inherent  in  her  nature,  had 
been  quenched,  to  all  appearance,  many  years 
since ;  but  the  spark  had  never  died,  and  John  had 
fanned  it  into  brightness  once  more. 

His  strong  hand  had  swept  away  the  cobwebs 
that  had  been  spun  across  her  life;  and  the 
drooping  soul  had  revived  in  the  sunshine  of  his 
love,  his  comradeship,  his  warm  approval. 

Timidly,  she  had  learnt  to  live,  to  laugh,  to 
look  about  her,  and  dare  utter  her  own  thoughts 
and  opinions,  instead  of  falsely  echoing  those  she 
did  not  share.  Lady  Mary  had  recovered  her 
individuality ;  the  serene  consciousness  of  a  power 
within  herself  to  live  up  to  the  ideal  her  lover  had 
conceived  of  her. 

But  now,  in  his  absence,  that  confidence  had 
been  rudely  shaken.  She  had  come  to  perceive 
that  she,  who  charmed  others  so  easily,  could  not 
charm  her  sullen  son.  It  was  part  of  the  penalty 
she  paid  for  her  quick-wittedness,  that  she  could 
realize  herself  as  Peter  saw  her,  though  she  was 
unable  to  present  herself  before  him  in  a  more 
favourable  light. 

"  I  must  be  myself — or  nobody,"  she  thought 
despairingly.  But  Peter  wanted  her  to  be  once 
more  the  meek,  plainly  dressed,  low-spirited, 
silent  being  whom  Sir  Timothy  had  created ;  and 
who  was  not  in  the  least  like  the  original  laughing, 
loving,  joyous  Mary  Setoun. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  245 

It  did  not  occur  to  her,  in  her  sorrowful 
humility,  that  possibly  her  qualities  stood  on  a 
higher  level  than  Peter's  powers  of  appreciation. 
Yet  it  is  certain  that  people  can  only  admire  in- 
telligently what  is  good  within  their  comprehen- 
sion ;  and  their  highest  flights  of  imagination  may 
sometimes  scarcely  touch  mediocrity. 

The  noblest  ideals,  the  fairest  dreams,  the  subt- 
lest reasoning,  the  finest  ethics,  contained  in  the 
writings  of  the  mighty  dead,  meant  nothing  at  all 
to  Sir  Timothy.  His  widow  knew  that  she  had 
never  heard  him  utter  one  high  or  noble  or  selfless 
thought.  But  with,  perhaps,  pardonable  egotism, 
she  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  Peter  must  be 
different.  Whatever  his  outward  humours,  he 
was  her  son ;  rather  a  part  of  herself,  in  her  loving 
fancy,  than  a  separate  individual. 

The  moment  of  awakening  had  been  long  in 
coming  to  Lady  Mary;  the  moment  when  a 
mother  has  to  find  out  that  her  personality  is 
not  necessarily  reproduced  in  her  child;  that  the 
being  who  was  once  the  unconscious  consoler  of 
her  griefs  and  troubles  may  develop  a  nature 
perfectly  antagonistic  to  her  own. 

She  had  kept  her  eyes  shut  with  all  her  might 
for  a  long  time,  but  necessity  was  forcing  them 
open. 

Perhaps  her  association  with  John  Crewys 
made  it  easier  to  see  Peter  as  he  was,  and  not  as 
she  had  wished  him  to  be. 


246  PETER'S  MOTHER 

And  yet,  she  thought  miserably  to  herself,  he 
had  certainly  tried  hard  to  be  affectionate  and 
kind  to  her — and  probably  it  did  not  occur  to  him, 
as  it  did  to  his  mother,  how  pathetic  it  was  that  he 
should  have  to  try. 

Peter  did  not  think  much  about  it. 

Sometimes,  during  his  short  stay  at  Barra- 
combe,  he  had  walked  through  a  game  of  croquet 
with  his  mother — it  was  good  practice  for  his  left 
hand — or  he  listened  disapprovingly  to  something 
she  inadvertently  (forgetting  he  was  not  John) 
read  aloud  for  his  sympathy  or  admiration ;  or  he 
took  a  short  stroll  with  her ;  or  bestowed  his  com- 
pany upon  her  in  some  other  dutiful  fashion.  But 
these  filial  attentions  over,  if  he  yawned  with 
relief — why,  he  never  did  so  in  her  presence,  and 
would  have  been  unable  to  understand  that  Lady 
Mary  saw  him  yawning,  in  her  mind's  eye,  as 
plainly  as  though  he  had  indulged  this  bad  habit 
under  her  very  nose.  He  bestowed  a  portion  of 
his  time  on  his  aunts  in  much  the  same  spirit, 
taking  less  trouble  to  be  affectionate,  because  they 
were  less  exacting,  as  he  would  have  put  it  to  him- 
self, than  she  was. 

The  scheme  of  renting  a  house  in  London  had 
duly  been  laid  before  him,  and  rejected  most  de- 
cisively by  the  young  gentleman.  His  father  had 
never  taken  a  house  in  town,  and  he  could  see 
no  necessity  for  it.  His  aunts  were  lost  in  ad- 
miration for  their  nephew's  firmness.  Peter  had 


PETER'S  MOTHER  247 

inherited  somewhat  of  his  father's  dictatorial  man- 
ner, and  their  flattery  did  not  tend  to  soften  it. 
When  his  aged  relatives  mispronounced  the  magic 
word  kopje,  or  betrayed  their  belief  that  a  donga 
was  an  inaccessible  mountain — he  brought  the  big 
guns  of  his  heavy  satire  to  bear  on  the  little  target 
of  their  ignorance  without  remorse.  He  mistook  a 
loud  voice,  and  a  habit  of  laying  down  the  law,  for 
manly  decision,  and  the  gift  of  leadership ;  and  im- 
agined that  in  talking  down  his  mother's  gentle  pro- 
tests he  had  convinced  her  of  his  superior  wisdom. 

When  he  had  made  it  sufficiently  clear,  how- 
ever, that  he  did  not  wish  Lady  Mary  to  accom- 
pany him  to  town,  young  Sir  Peter  made  haste 
to  depart  thither  himself,  on  the  very  reasonable 
plea  that  he  required  a  new  outfit  of  clothes. 

Was  it  possible  that  his  departure  brought  a 
dreadful  relief  to  the  mother  who  had  prayed  day 
and  night,  for  eight-and-twenty  months,  that  her 
son  might  return  to  her? 

She  tried  and  tried,  on  her  knees  in  her  own 
room,  to  realize  what  her  feelings  would  have  been 
if  Peter  had  been  killed  in  South  Africa.  She 
tried  to  recall  the  first  ecstasy  of  joy  at  his  home- 
coming. She  remembered,  as  she  might  have  re- 
membered a  dream,  the  hours  of  agony  she  had 
passed,  looking  out  over  these  very  blue  hills,  and 
dumbly  beseeching  God  to  spare  her  boy — her  only 
son — out  of  all  the  mothers'  sons  who  were  laying 
down  their  lives  for  England. 


248  PETER'S  MOTHER 

A  terrible  thought  assailed  her  now  and  then, 
like  an  ugly  spectre  that  would  not  be  laid — that 
if  Peter  had  died  of  his  wound — if  he  had  fallen 
as  so  many  of  his  comrades  had  fallen,  in  the  war — 
he  would  have  been  a  hero  for  all  time ;  a  glorious 
memory,  safely  enshrined  and  enthroned  above 
all  these  miserable  petty  doubts  and  disappoint- 
ments. She  cast  the  thought  from  her  in  hor- 
ror and  piteous  grief,  and  reiterated  always  her 
passionate  gratitude  for  his  preservation.  But, 
nevertheless,  the  living,  breathing  Peter  was  a 
daily  and  hourly  disappointment  to  the  mother 
who  loved  him.  His  ways  were  not  her  ways,  nor 
his  thoughts  her  thoughts ;  and  often  she  felt  that 
she  could  have  found  more  to  say  to  a  complete 
stranger,  and  that  a  stranger  would  have  under- 
stood her  better. 

The  old  ladies,  returning  from  their  drive, 
generally  took  a  little  turn  upon  the  terrace.  This 
constituted  half  their  daily  exercise,  since  their 
morning  walk  consisted  of  a  stroll  round  the  kit- 
chen garden. 

"It  prevents  cramp  after  sitting  so  long,"  one 
would  say  to  the  other. 

"And  it  is  only  right  to  show  the  gardener 
that  we  take  an  interest,"  the  other  would  reply. 

The  gardener  translated  the  interest  they  took 
into  a  habit  of  fault-finding,  which  nearly  drove 
him  mad. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  249 

"  It  du  spile  the  vine  weather  vor  I,"  he  would 
frequently  grumble  to  his  greatest  crony,  James 
Coachman,  who,  for  his  part,  bitterly  resented  the 
abnormal  length  of  the  daily  drives.  "Zure  as 
vate,  when  I  zits  down  tu  my  tea,  cumes  a  message 
from  one  are  t'other  on  'em,  an'  oop  I  goes.  '  Yu 
bain't  been  lukin'  round  zo  careful  as  'ee  shude; 
there  be  a  bit  o'  magnolia  as  want  nailding  oop, 
my  gude  man.'  'Oh,  be  there,  mum?'  zays  I. 
'  Yiss,  there  be ;  an'  thart  I'd  carl  yure  attention 
tu  it,'  zess  she,  are  zum  zuch.  'Thanky,  mum, 
I'm  zure,'  zezz  I." 

"  I  knows  how  her  goes  on,"  groaned  James 
Coachman. 

"Nother  toime  'tis  zummat  else,"  said  the 
aggrieved  gardener.  ' ' '  Thic  'ere  geranum  's  broke , 
Willum ;  but  ef  yu  tuke  it  vor  cuttings,  zo  vast's 
iver  yu  cude,  'twon't  take  no  yarm,  Willum.  Yu 
zee  as  how  us  du  take  a  turble  interest.'  Ah!  'tis 
arl  I  can  du  tu  putt  oop  wi'  'un ;  carling  a  man 
from's  tea,  tu  tark  zuch  vamous  vule's  tark." 

Lady  Mary  was  not  much  less  weary  than  the 
gardener  and  coachman  of  the  old  sisters'  habits 
of  criticism.  But  only  the  shadow  of  their  former 
power  of  vexing  her  remained,  now  that  they 
could  no  longer  appeal  to  Sir  Timothy  to  join 
them  in  reproving  his  wife.  She  was  no  more  to 
be  teased  or  exasperated  into  alternate  submission 
and  rebellion. 

Their  cousin  John,  the  administrator  of  Barra- 


250  PETER'S  MOTHER 

combe,  had  chosen  from  the  first  to  place  her 
opinions  and  wishes  above  all  their  protests  or 
advice.  They  said  to  each  other  that  John,  before 
he  grew  tired  of  her  and  went  away,  had  spoilt 
poor  dear  Mary  completely ;  but  their  hopes  were 
centred  on  Peter,  who  was  a  true  Crewys,  and 
who  would  soon  be  his  own  master,  and  the  mas- 
ter of  Barracombe;  when  he  would,  doubtless, 
revert  to  his  father's  old  ways. 

They  chose  to  blame  his  mother  for  his  sud- 
den departure  to  London,  and  remarked  that  the 
changes  in  his  home  had  so  wrought  upon  the  poor 
fellow,  that  he  could  not  bear  to  look  at  them 
until  he  had  the  power  of  putting  them  right  again. 

A  deeply  resented  innovation  was  the  appear- 
ance of  the  tea-table  on  the  lawn  before  the 
windows,  in  the  shade  of  the  ilex-grove,  which 
sheltered  the  western  end  of  the  terrace  from  the 
low  rays  of  the  sun. 

During  the  previous  summer,  on  their  return 
from  a  drive,  they  had  found  their  cousin  John 
in  his  white  flannels,  and  Lady  Mary  in  her  black 
gown,  serenely  enjoying  this  refreshment  out-of- 
doors  ;  and  the  poor  old  ladies  had  hardly  known 
how  to  express  their  surprise  and  annoyance. 

In  vain  did  their  sister-in-law  explain  that  she 
had  desired  a  second  tea  to  be  served  in  the  hall, 
in  their  usual  corner  by  the  log  fireplace. 

It  had  never  been  the  custom  in  the  family. 
What  would  Ash  say?  What  would  he  think? 


PETER'S  MOTHER  251 

How  could  so  much  extra  trouble  be  given  to  the 
servants  ? 

"The  servants  have  next  to  nothing  to  do," 
Lady  Mary  had  said ;  and  young  John  had  actu- 
ally laughed,  and  explained  that  he  had  had  a 
conversation  with  Ash  which  had  almost  petrified 
that  tyrant  of  the  household. 

Either  Ash  would  behave  himself  properly, 
and  carry  out  orders  without  grumbling,  or  he 
would  be  superseded.  Ash  superseded! 

This  John  had  said  with  quite  unruffled  good 
humour,  and  with  a  smile  on  his  face,  as  though 
such  an  upheaval  of  domestic  politics  were  the 
simplest  thing  in  the  world.  Though  for  years 
the  insolence  and  the  idleness  of  Ash  had  been 
favourite  grievances  with  Lady  Belstone  and  Miss 
Crewys,  they  were  speechlessly  indignant  with 
young  John. 

Habit  had  partially  inured,  though  it  could 
never  reconcile  them,  to  the  appearance  of  that 
little  rustic  table  and  white  cloth  in  Lady  Mary's 
favourite  corner  of  the  terrace ;  and  though  they 
would  rather  have  gone  without  their  tea  alto- 
gether than  partake  of  it  there,  they  could  behold 
her  pouring  it  out  for  herself  with  comparative 
equanimity. 

"  I  trust  you  are  rested,  dear  Mary,  after  your 
terrible  long  climb  in  the  woods  this  morning?" 

"  It  has  been  very  restful  sitting  here.  I  hope 
you  had  a  pleasant  drive,  Isabella?" 


252  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  No ;  it  was  too  hot  to  be  pleasant.  We  passed 
the  rectory,  and  there  was  that  idle  doctor  lolling 
in  the  canon's  verandah — keeping  the  poor  man 
from  his  haymaking.  Has  the  second  post  come 
in?  Any  news  of  dear  Peter?" 

"  None  at  all.  You  know  he  is  not  much  of  a 
correspondent,  and  his  last  letter  said  he  would  be 
back  in  a  few  days." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  "  I  think 
Peter  will  come  home  the  day  he  attains  his 
majority,  and  not  a  moment  before." 

"  He  is  hardly  likely  to  stay  in  London  through 
August  and  September,"  said  Lady  Mary,  in 
rather  displeased  tones. 

"  Perhaps  not  in  London ;  but  there  are  other 
places  besides  London,"  said  Miss  Crewys,  sig- 
nificantly. "We  met  Mrs.  Hewel  driving.  She, 
poor  thing,  does  not  expect  to  see  Sarah  before 
Christmas,  if  then,  from  what  she  told  us." 

"  She  should  not  have  let  Lady  Tintern  adopt 
Sarah  if  she  is  to  be  for  ever  regretting  it.  It  was 
her  own  doing,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"That  is  just  what  I  told  her,"  said  Lady 
Belstone,  triumphantly.  "Though  how  she  can 
be  regretting  such  a  daughter  I  cannot  con- 
jecture." 

"  Sarah  is  a  saucy  creature,"  said  Miss  Crewys. 
"The  last  time  I  saw  her  she  made  one  of  her 
senseless  jokes  at  me." 

"  She  has  no  tact,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  shaking 


PETER'S  MOTHER  253 

her  head ;  "  for  when  Peter  saw  you  were  annoyed, 
and  tried  to  pass  it  off  by  telling  her  the  Crewys 
family  had  no  sense  of  humour,  instead  of  saying, 
'  What  nonsense ! '  she  said,  '  What  a  pity ! ' ' 

"Her  mother  was  full  of  a  letter  from  Lady 
Tintern  about  some  grand  lord  or  other,  who 
wanted  to  marry  Sarah.  I  did  my  best  to  make 
her  understand  how  very  unlikely  it  was  that  any 
man,  noble  or  otherwise,  would  care  to  marry  a 
girl  with  carroty  hair." 

"  I  doubt  if  you  succeeded  in  convincing  her, 
Georgina,  though  you  spoke  pretty  plain,  and  I 
am  very  far  from  blaming  you  for  it.  But  she  is 
ate  up  with  pride,  poor  thing,  because  Sarah  gets 
noticed  by  Lady  Tintern's  friends,  who  would 
naturally  wish  to  gratify  her  by  flattering  her 
niece." 

"I  am  afraid  the  girl  is  setting  her  cap  at 
Peter,"  said  Miss  Crewys;  "but  I  took  care  to  let 
her  mother  know,  casually,  what  our  family  would 
think  of  such  a  marriage  for  him." 

"Peter  is  a  boy,"  said  Lady  Mary,  quickly; 
"  and  Sarah,  for  all  practical  purposes,  is  ten  years 
older  than  he.  She  is  only  amusing  herself.  Lady 
Tintern  is  much  more  ambitious  for  her  than  I  am 
for  Peter." 

" How  you  talk,  Mary!"  said  Miss  Crewys,  in- 
dignantly. "  She  is  hardly  twenty  years  of  age, 
and  the  most  designing  monkey  that  ever  lived. 
And  Peter  is  a  fine  young  man.  A  boy,  indeed! 


254  PETER'S  MOTHER 

I  hope  if  she  succeeds  in  catching  him  that  you  will 
remember  I  warned  you." 

"I  will  remember,  if  anything  so  fortunate 
should  occur,"  said  Lady  Mary,  with  a  faint 
smile.  "  I  cannot  think  of  any  girl  in  the  world 
whom  I  would  prefer  to  Sarah  as  a  daughter." 

"I,  for  one,  should  walk  out  of  this  house  the 
day  that  girl  entered  it  as  mistress,  let  Peter  say 
what  he  would  to  prevent  me,"  said  Lady  Bel- 
stone,  reddening  with  indignation. 

"  I  wonder  where  you  would  go  to? "  said  Lady 
Mary,  with  some  curiosity.  "Of  course,"  she 
added,  hastily,  "there  is  the  Dower  House." 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  very  generous  of  you  to  sug- 
gest the  Dower  House,  dear  Mary,"  said  Miss 
Crewys,  softening,  "  since  our  poor  brother,  in  his 
unaccountable  will,  left  it  entirely  to  you,  and 
made  no  mention  of  his  elder  sisters ;  though  we 
do  not  complain." 

"It  is  in  accordance  with  custom  that  the 
widow  should  have  the  Dower  House.  A  widow's 
rights  should  be  respected;  but  I  thought  our 
names  would  be  mentioned,"  said  Lady  Belstone, 
dejectedly. 

"Of  course  he  knew,"  said  Lady  Mary,  in  a 
low  voice,  "that  Peter's  house  would  be  always 
open  to  us  all,  as  my  boy  said  himself." 

"  Dear  boy!  he  has  said  it  to  us  too,"  said  the 
sisters,  in  a  breath. 

"I  don't  say  that,  in  my  opinion,"  said  Lady 


PETER'S  MOTHER  255 

Mary,  "it  would  not  be  wiser  to  leave  a  young 
married  couple  to  themselves;  I  have  always 
thought  so.  But  Peter  would  not  hear  of  your 
turning  out  of  your  old  home;  you  know  that 
very  well." 

"  Peter  would  not ;  but  nothing  would  induce 
me  to  live  under  the  same  roof  as  that  red-haired 
minx,"  said  Lady  Belstone,  firmly.  "And  be- 
sides, as  you  say,  my  dear  Mary,  you  could  not 
very  well  live  by  yourself  at  the  Dower  House." 

"  Since  Mary  has  been  so  kind  as  to  mention  it, 
there  would  be  many  advantages  in  our  accom- 
panying her  there,  in  case  Sarah  should  succeed 
in  her  artful  aims,"  said  Miss  Crewys.  "  It  would 
be  near  Peter,  and  yet  not  too  near,  and  we  could 
keep  an  eye  on  her." 

"  If  she  does  not  succeed,  somebody  else  will," 
said  Lady  Belstone,  sensibly;  "and,  at  least,  we 
know  her  faults,  and  can  put  Peter  on  his  guard 
against  them." 

A  host  of  petty  and  wretched  recollections 
poured  into  Lady  Mary's  mind  as  she  listened  to 
these  words. 

Poor  Timothy ;  poor  little  hunted,  scolded,  de- 
spairing bride;  poor  married  life — of  futile  re- 
proaches and  foolish  quarrelling. 

How  many  small  miseries  she  owed  to  those 
ferret  searching  eyes,  and  those  subtly  poisonous 
tongues!  But  such  miseries  lurked  in  the  dull 
shadows  of  the  past.  Standing  now  in  the  bright 


256  PETER'S  MOTHER 

sunshine  of  the  present,  she  forgave  the  sisters 
with  all  her  heart,  and  thought  compassionately 
of  their  great  age,  their  increasing  infirmities, 
their  feeble  hold  on  life. 

Not  to  them  did  she  owe  real  sorrow,  after  all ; 
for  nothing  that  does  not  touch  the  heart  can  reach 
the  fountain  of  grief. 

Peter's  hand — the  hand  she  loved  best  in  the 
world — had  set  the  waters  of  sorrow  flowing  not 
once,  but  many  times ;  but  she  had  become  aware 
lately  of  a  stronger  power  than  Peter's  guarding 
the  spring. 

She  looked  from  one  sister  to  the  other. 

Despite  the  narrowness  of  brow,  and  sharpness 
of  eye  and  feature,  they  were  both  venerable  of 
aspect,  as  they  tottered  up  and  down  the  terrace 
where  they  had  played  in  their  childhood  and 
sauntered  through  youth  and  middle  age  to  these 
latter  days,  when  they  leant  upon  silver-headed 
sticks,  and  wore  dignified  silk  attire  and  respect- 
able poke-bonnets. 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better,"  said 
Lady  Mary,  slowly,  "if  you  left  Peter  to  find  out 
his  wife's  faults  for  himself ;  whether  she  be  Sarah 
— or  another?" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

TORRENTS  of  falling  rain  obscured  the  valley  of  the 
Youle.  The  grey  clouds  floated  below  the  ridges 
of  the  hills,  and  wreathed  the  tree-tops.  Against 
the  dim  purple  of  the  distance,  the  October  roses 
held  up  melancholy,  rain- washed  heads;  and 
sudden  gusts  of  wind  sent  little  armies  of  dead, 
brown  leaves  racing  over  the  stone  pavement  of 
the  terrace. 

Lady  Mary  leant  her  forehead  against  the 
window,  and  gazed  out  upon  the  autumn  land- 
scape ;  and  John  Crewys  watched  her  with  feelings 
not  altogether  devoid  of  self-reproach. 

Perhaps  he  had  carried  his  prudent  considera- 
tion too  far. 

His  reverence  for  his  beautiful  lady — who 
reigned  in  John's  inmost  thoughts  as  both  saint 
and  queen — had  caused  him  to  determine  that 
she  must  come  to  him,  when  she  did  come,  with- 
out a  shadow  of  self-reproach  to  sully  the  joy 
of  her  surrender,  the  fulness  of  her  bliss,  in  the 
perfect  sympathy  and  devotion  which  awaited 
her. 

But  John  Crewys — though  passionately  de- 

17  257 


258  PETER'S  MOTHER 

siring  her  companionship,  and  impatient  of  all 
barriers,  real  or  imaginary,  which  divided  her 
from  him — yet  lived  a  life  very  full  of  work  and 
interest  and  pleasure  on  his  own  account.  He 
was  only  conscious  of  his  loneliness  at  times ;  and 
when  he  was  as  busy  as  he  had  been  during  the 
early  half  of  this  summer,  he  was  hardly  con- 
scious of  it  at  all. 

He  had  not  fully  realized  the  effect  that  this 
time  of  waiting  and  uncertainty  might  have  upon 
her,  in  the  solitude  to  which  he  had  left  her,  and 
which  he  had  at  first  supposed  would  be  altogether 
occupied  by  Peter.  Her  letters — infrequent  as  he, 
in  his  self-denial,  had  suggested — were  character- 
ized by  a  delicate  reserve  and  a  tacit  refusal  to 
take  anything  for  granted  in  their  relations  to 
each  other,  which  half  charmed  and  half  tantalized 
John ;  but  scarcely  enlightened  him  regarding  the 
suspense  and  sadness  which  at  this  time  she  was 
called  upon  to  bear. 

When  he  came  to  Barracombe,  he  knew  that 
she  had  suffered  greatly  during  these  months  of 
his  absence,  and  reproached  himself  angrily  for 
blindness  and  selfishness. 

He  had  spent  the  first  weeks  of  his  long  vaca- 
tion in  Switzerland,  in  order  to  bring  the  date  of 
his  visit  to  the  Youle  Valley  as  near  as  possible  to 
the  date  of  Peter's  coming  of  age;  but,  also,  he 
had  been  very  much  overworked,  and  felt  an 
absolute  want  of  rest  and  change  before  entering 


PETER'S  MOTHER  259 

upon  the  struggle  which  he  supposed  might  await 
him,  and  for  which  he  would  probably  need  all  the 
good  humour  and  good  sense  he  possessed.  So 
far  as  he  was  personally  concerned,  there  was  no 
doubt  that  his  proceedings  had  been  dictated  by 
wisdom  and  judgment. 

The  fatigue  and  irritability,  consequent  upon 
too  much  mental  labour,  and  too  little  fresh  air 
and  exercise,  had  vanished.  John  was  in  good 
health  and  good  spirits,  clear  of  brain  and  eye, 
and  vigorous  of  person,  when  he  arrived  at  Bar- 
racombe ;  in  the  mild,  wet,  misty  weather  which 
heralded  the  approach  of  a  typical  Devonshire 
autumn. 

But  when  he  looked  at  Lady  Mary,  he  knew 
that  he  would  have  been  better  able  to  dispense 
with  that  holiday  interval  than  she  was  to  have 
endured  it. 

She  had  always  been  considered  marvellously 
young-looking  for  her  age.  The  quiet  country  life 
she  had  led  had  bestowed  that  advantage  upon  her ; 
and  her  beauty,  fair  as  she  was,  had  always  been 
less  dependent  on  colouring  than  upon  the  exqui- 
site delicacy  of  her  features  and  general  contour. 
But  now  a  heaviness  beneath  the  blue  eyes, — a 
little  fading  of  her  brightness — a  little  droop  of  the 
beautifully  shaped  mouth, — almost  betrayed  her 
seven  and  thirty  years;  and  the  soft,  abundant, 
brown  hair  was  threaded  quite  perceptibly  with 
silver.  Her  sweet  face  smiled  upon  him ;  but  the 


260  PETER'S  MOTHER 

smile  was  no  longer,  he  thought,  joyous — but 
pathetic,  as  of  one  who  reproaches  herself  wonder- 
ingly  for  light-heartedness. 

John  looked  at  her  in  silence,  but  the  words  he 
uttered  in  his  heart  were,  "  I  will  never  leave  you 
any  more." 

Perhaps  his  face  said  everything  that  he  did 
not  say,  for  Lady  Mary  had  turned  from  him  with 
a  little  sob,  and  leant  her  forehead  on  her  hands, 
looking  out  at  the  rain  which  swept  the  valley. 
She  felt,  as  she  had  always  felt  in  John's  presence, 
that  here  was  her  champion  and  her  protector  and 
her  slave,  in  one;  returned  to  restore  her  failing 
courage  and  her  lost  self-confidence. 

"So  you  saw  something  of  Peter  in  London?" 
she  said  tremulously,  breaking  the  silence  which 
had  fallen  between  them  after  their  first  greeting. 
"Please  tell  me.  You  know  I  have  seen  almost 
nothing  of  him  since  he  came  home." 

"So  I  gather,"  said  John.  "Yes,  I  saw  some- 
thing— not  very  much — of  Master  Peter  in  Lon- 
don. You  see  I  am  not  much  of  a  society  man;" 
and  he  laughed. 

"Was  Peter  a  society  man?"  said  his  mother, 
laughing  also,  but  rather  sadly. 

"  He  went  out  a  good  deal,  and  was  to  be  met 
with  in  most  places,"  John  answered. 

"I  read  his  name  in  lists  of  dances  given  by 
people  I  did  not  know  he  had  ever  heard  of.  But 
I  did  not  like  to  ask  him  how  he  managed  to  get 


PETER'S  MOTHER  261 

invited.  He  rather  dislikes  being  questioned," 
said  Lady  Mary,  describing  Peter's  prejudices  as 
mildly  as  possible. 

"  I  fancy  Miss  Sarah  could  tell  you,"  said  John, 
with  twinkling  eyes. 

"I  did  not  know — just  a  girl — could  get  a 
stranger,  a  boy  like  Peter,  invited  everywhere," 
said  Lady  Mary,  innocently. 

John  laughed.  "Peter  is  a  very  eligible  boy," 
he  said,  " and  Sarah  is  not  'just  a  girl,'  but  a  very 
clever  young  woman  indeed ;  and  Lady  Tintern  is 
a  ball-giver.  But  if  he  had  been  the  most  ordinary 
of  youths,  a  bachelor's  foothold  on  the  dance-lists 
is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  obtain.  It 
means  nothing  in  itself." 

"  I  think  it  meant  a  good  deal  to  Peter,"  said 
his  mother,  with  a  sigh.  "  If  only  I  could  think 
Sarah  were  in  earnest." 

"  I  don't  see  why  not,"  said  John. 

Then  he  came  and  took  Lady  Mary's  hand,  and 
led  her  to  a  seat  next  the  fire. 

"Come  and  sit  down  comfortably,"  he  said, 
"and  let  us  talk  everything  over.  It  looks  very 
miserable  out-of-doors,  and  nothing  could  be 
more  delightful  than  this  room,  and  nobody  to 
disturb  us.  I  want  the  real  history  of  the  last  few 
months.  Do  you  know  your  letters  told  me 
almost  n  ot hing  ? ' ' 

The  room  was  certainly  delightful,  and  not  the 
less  so  for  the  chill  rain  without,  which  beat  against 


262  PETER'S  MOTHER 

the  windows,  and  enhanced  the  bright  aspect  of 
the  scene  within. 

A  little  fire  burned  cheerfully  in  the  polished 
grate,  and  cast  its  glow  upon  the  burnished  fender, 
and  the  silver  ornaments  and  trifles  on  a  rosewood 
table  beyond.  The  furniture  was  bright  with  old- 
fashioned  glossy  chintz ;  the  rose-tinted  walls  were 
hung  with  fine  water-colour  drawings;  the  win- 
dows with  rose-silk  curtains. 

The  hardy  outdoor  flowers  were  banished  to 
the  oaken  hall.  Lady  Mary's  sense  of  the  fitness 
of  things  permitted  the  silver  cups  and  Venetian 
glasses  of  this  dainty  apartment  to  be  filled  only 
with  waxen  hothouse  blooms  and  maidenhair 
fern. 

She  could  not  but  be  conscious  of  the  restful- 
ness  of  her  surroundings,  and  of  John's  calm,  pro- 
tecting presence,  as  he  placed  her  tenderly  in  the 
corner  of  the  fireside  couch,  and  took  his  place 
beside  her. 

"  I  don't  think  the  last  months  have  had  any 
history  at  all,"  she  said  dreamily.  "I  have 
missed  you,  John.  But  that — you  know  already. 
I — I  have  been  very  lonely — since — since  Peter 
came  home.  I  think  it  was  Sarah  who  persuaded 
him  to  go  away  again  so  soon.  I  believe  she 
laughed  at  his  clothes." 

"  I  suppose  they  were  a  little  out  of  date,  and 
he  must  surely  have  outgrown  them,  besides," 
said  John,  smiling. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  263 

"  I  suppose  so ;  anyway,  I  think  it  must  have 
been  that  which  put  it  into  his  head  to  go  to 
London  and  buy  more.  It  was  a  little  awkward 
for  the  poor  boy,  because  he  had  just  been  scold- 
ing me  for  wishing  to  go  to  London.  But  he  said 
he  would  only  be  a  few  days." 

"  And  he  stayed  to  the  end  of  the  season?" 

"Yes.  Of  course  the  aunts  put  it  down  to 
Sarah.  I  dare  say  it  was  her  doing.  I  don't 
know  why  she  should  wish  to  rob  me  of  my  boy 
just  for — amusement,"  said  Lady  Mary,  rather 
resentfully.  "  But  I  have  not  understood  Sarah 
lately ;  she  has  seemed  so  hard  and  flippant.  You 
are  laughing,  John?  I  dare  say  I  am  jealous  and 
inconsistent.  You  are  quite  right.  One  moment 
I  want  to  think  Sarah  in  earnest — and  willing  to 
marry  my  boy;  and  the  next  I  remember  that  I 
began  to  hate  his  wife  the  very  day  he  was  born." 

"  It  appears  to  be  the  nature  of  mothers,"  said 
John,  indulgently.  "But  you  will  allow  me  to 
hope  for  Peter's  happiness,  and  quite  incidentally, 
of  course,  for  our  own?" 

She  smiled.  "Seriously,  John,  I  wish  you 
would  tell  me  how  he  got  on  in  London." 

"  He  dined  with  me  once  or  twice,  as  you 
know,"  said  John,  "and  was  very  friendly.  I 
think  he  was  relieved  that  I  made  no  suggestion 
of  tutors  or  universities,  and  that  I  took  his  eye- 
glass for  granted.  In  short,  that  I  treated  him 
as  I  should  treat  any  other  young  man  of  my 


264  PETER'S  MOTHER 

acquaintance;  whereas  he  had  greatly  feared  I 
might  presume  upon  my  guardianship  to  give 
him  good  advice.  But  I  did  not,  because  he  is  too 
young  to  want  advice  just  now,  and  prefers,  like 
most  of  us,  to  buy  his  own  experience." 

"  I  hope  he  was  really  nice  to  you.  You  won't 
hide  anything?  You'll  tell  me  exactly?" 

"I  am  hiding  nothing.  The  lad  is  a  good  lad 
at  bottom,  and  a  manly  one  into  the  bargain," 
said  John.  "His  defects  are  of  the  kind  which 
get  up,  so  to  speak,  and  hit  you  in  the  eye ;  and 
are,  consequently,  not  of  a  kind  to  escape  obser- 
vation. What  is  obviously  wrong  is  easiest  cured. 
He  has  yet  to  learn  that  'manners  maketh  man,' 
but  he  was  learning  it  as  fast  as  possible.  The 
mistakes  of  youth  are  rather  pathetic  than 
annoying." 

"Sometimes,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"  He  fell,  very  naturally,  into  most  of  the  con- 
ventional errors  which  beset  the  inexperienced 
Londoner,"  said  John,  smiling  slightly  at  the  recol- 
lection. "  He  talked  in  a  familiar  manner  of  per- 
sons whose  names  were  unknown  to  him  the  day 
before  yesterday ;  and  told  well-known  anecdotes 
about  well-known  people  whom  he  hadn't  had 
time  to  meet,  as  though  they  had  only  just 
happened.  The  kind  of  stories  outsiders  tell 
to  new-comers.  And  he  professed  to  be  bored  at 
every  party  he  attended.  I  won't  say  that  the 
is  always  too  well  bred,  or  too  grateful  to 


PETER'S  MOTHER  265 

his  entertainers,  to  do  anything  of  the  kind;  but 
he  is  certainly  too  wise  or  too  cautious." 

"Perhaps  he  was  bored?"  said  Lady  Mary, 
wistfully.  "Knowing  nobody,  poor  boy." 

"The  first  time  I  met  him  on  neutral  ground 
was  at  a  dance,"  said  John.  "He  looked  very 
tall  and  nervous  and  lonely,  and,  of  course,  he  was 
not  dancing;  but,  nevertheless,  he  was  the  hero  of 
the  evening,  or  so  Miss  Sarah  gave  me  to  under- 
stand. But  you  can  imagine  it  for  yourself.  The 
war  just  over,  and  a  young  fellow  who  has  lost  so 
much  in  it;  the  gallant  nephew  of  the  gallant 
Ferries;  besides  his  own  romantic  name,  and  his 
eligibility.  I  took  him  off  to  the  National  Gallery, 
to  make  acquaintance  with  the  portrait  of  our 
cavalier  ancestor  there;  and  I  declare  there  is  a 
likeness.  Miss  Sarah  had  visited  it  long  ago,  it 
appears.  For  my  part,  I  am  glad  to  think  that 
these  fashionable  young  women  can  still  be  so 
enthusiastic  about  a  wounded  soldier.  Sarah 
said  they  were  all  wild  to  dance  with  him,  and 
ready  to  shed  tears  for  his  lost  arm." 

"And  was  he  much  with  Sarah?" 

John  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  Miss  Sarah  is  a  star  with  many  satellites.  She 
raised  my  hopes,  however,  by  appearing  to  have 
a  few  smiles  to  spare  for  Peter." 

"  And  she  must  have  got  him  the  invitation  to 
Tintern  Castle,"  said  Lady  Mary.  "That  is  why 
he  went  up  to  Scotland." 


266  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"I  see." 

"  Then  she  got  him  another  invitation,  I  sup- 
pose, for  he  went  to  the  next  house  she  stayed  at ; 
and  to  a  third  place  for  some  yachting." 

"What  did  Lady  Tintern  say?" 

"That's  just  it.  Sarah  is  in  Lady  Tintern 's 
black  books  just  now.  She  is  furious  with  her, 
Mrs.  Hewel  tells  me,  because  she  has  refused  Lord 
Avonwick." 

"  Hum! "  said  John.  "  He  has  forty  thousand 
a  year." 

"I  don't  think  money  would  tempt  Sarah  to 
marry  a  man  she  did  not  love,"  said  Lady  Mary, 
reproachfully.  "There  was  Mr.  Van  Graaf,  the 
African  millionaire.  She  wouldn't  look  at  him, 
and  he  offered  to  settle  untold  sums  upon  her." 

"Did  he?     What  a  brute!" 

"Why?" 

"Never  mind.  You've  not  seen  him.  I'm 
glad  he  found  Sarah  wasn't  for  sale.  But  doesn't 
all  this  look  as  if  it  were  Peter,  after  all?" 

"If  only  I  could  think  she  were  in  earnest," 
Lady  Mary  said  again.  "  But  he  is  such  a  boy. 
She  has  three  times  his  cleverness  in  some  ways, 
and  three  times  his  experience,  though  she  is 
younger  than  he.  I  suppose  women  mature 
much  earlier  than  men.  It  galls  my  pride  when 
she  orders  him  about,  and  laughs  at  him.  But 
he — he  doesn't  understand." 

"Perhaps,"    said   John,    slowly,    "he   under- 


PETER'S  MOTHER  267 

stands  better  than  you  think.  Each  generation 
has  a  freemasonry  of  its  own.  I  must  confess  I 
have  heard  scraps  of  chatter  and  chaff  in  ball- 
rooms and  theatres  which  have  filled  me  with 
amazement,  wondering  how  it  could  be  possible 
that  such  poor  stuff  should  pass  muster  as  con- 
versation, or  coquetry,  or  gallantry,  with  the 
youths  and  maidens  of  to-day.  But  when  I  have 
observed  further,  instead  of  an  offended  fair,  or  a 
disillusioned  swain,  behold !  two  young  heads  close 
together,  two  young  faces  sparkling  with  smiles 
and  satisfaction.  And  the  older  person,  who 
would  fatuously  join  in  with  a  sensible  remark, 
spoils  all  the  enjoyment.  The  fact  is,  the  secret 
of  real  companionship  is  not  quality,  but  equality. 
There's  a  punning  platitude  for  you." 

"  It  may  be  a  platitude,  but  I  am  beginning  to 
discover  that  what  are  called  platitudes  by  the 
young  are  biting  truths  to  the  old,"  said  Lady 
Mary.  "I've  felt  it  a  thousand  times.  Words 
come  so  easily  to  my  lips  when  I'm  speaking  to 
you,  I  am  so  certain  you  will  understand  and 
respond.  But  with  Peter,  I  sometimes  feel  as 
though  I  were  dumb  or  stupid.  Perhaps  you've 
been  too — too  kind;  you've  understood  too 
quickly.  I've  been  too  ready  to  believe  that 
you've  found  me " 

"Everything  I  wanted  to  find  you,"  inter- 
rupted John,  tenderly ;  "  and  that  was  something 
quite  out  of  the  common." 


268  PETER'S  MOTHER 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "  I  am  ready 
to  believe  all  the  nice  things  you  can  say,  as  fast  as 
you  can  say  them,  when  I  am  with  you,"  she  said, 
with  a  raillery  rather  mournful  than  gay.  "  But 
when  I  am  with  Peter,  I  seem  to  realize  dread- 
fully that  I'm  only  a  middle-aged  woman  of  aver- 
age capacity,  and  with  very  little  knowledge  of 
the  world.  He  does  his  best  to  teach  me.  That's 
funny,  isn't  it?" 

"  It's  very  like — a  very  young  man,"  said  John, 
gently. 

"  You  mustn't  think  I'm  mocking  at  my  boy- 
like  Sarah,"  she  said  vehemently.  "  Perhaps  I  am 
wrong  to  tell  you.  Perhaps  only  a  mother  would 
really  understand.  But  it  makes  me  a  little  sad 
and  bewildered.  My  boy — my  little  baby,  who 
lay  in  my  arms  and  learnt  everything  from  me. 
And  now  he  looks  down  and  lectures  me  from 
such  an  immense  height  of  superiority,  never 
dreaming  that  I'm  laughing  in  my  heart,  because 
it's  only  little  Peter,  after  all." 

"And  he  doesn't  lecture  Sarah?" 

"  Oh  no;  he  doesn't  lecture  Sarah.  She  is  too 
young  to  be  lectured  with  impunity,  and  too  wise. 
Besides,  I  think  since  he  went  away,  and  saw  Sarah 
flattered  and  spoilt,  and  queening  it  among  the 
great  people  who  didn't  know  him  even  by  sight, 
that  he  has  realized  that  their  relative  positions 
have  changed  a  good  deal.  You  see,  little  Sarah 
Hewel,  as  she  used  to  be,  would  have  been  making 


PETER'S  MOTHER  269 

quite  a  great  match  in  marrying  Peter.  But 
Lady  Tintern's  adopted  daughter  and  heiress — 
old  Tintern  left  an  immense  fortune  to  his  wife, 
didn't  he? — is  another  matter  altogether.  And 
how  could  she  settle  down  to  this  humdrum  life 
after  all  the  excitement  and  gaiety  she's  been 
accustomed  to?" 

"Women  do  such  things  every  day.     Besides 


"Yes?" 

"  Is  Peter  still  so  much  enamoured  of  a  hum- 
drum life?"  said  John,  dryly. 

"  I  have  had  no  opportunity  of  finding  out ;  but 
I  am  sure  he  will  want  to  settle  down  quietly  when 
all  this  is  over " 

"You  mean  when  he's  no  longer  in  love  with 
Sarah?" 

"He's  barely  one-and- twenty ;  it  can't  last," 
said  Lady  Mary. 

"  I  don't  know.  If  she's  so  much  cleverer 
than  he,  I'm  inclined  to  think  it  may,"  said  John. 

"Oh,  of  course,  if  he  married  her — it  would 
last,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"And  then?"  said  John,  smiling. 

" Perhaps  then,"  said  Lady  Mary;  and  she  laid 
her  hand  softly  in  the  strong  hand  outstretched  to 
receive  it. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THERE  was  a  tap  at  the  door  of  Lady  Mary's  bed- 
room, and  Peter's  voice  sounded  without. 

"  Mother,  could  I  speak  to  you  for  a  moment?  " 

"Come  in,"  said  Lady  Mary's  soft  voice;  and 
Peter  entered  and  closed  the  door,  and  crossed  to 
the  oriel  window,  where  she  was  sitting  at  her 
writing-table,  before  a  pile  of  notes  and  account 
books. 

Long  ago,  in  Peter's  childhood,  she  had  learned 
to  make  this  bedroom  her  refuge,  where  she  could 
read  or  write  or  dream,  in  silence ;  away  from  the 
two  old  ladies,  who  seemed  to  pervade  all  the 
living-rooms  at  Barracombe.  Peter  had  been 
accustomed  all  his  life  to  seek  his  mother  here. 

She  had  chosen  the  room  at  her  marriage,  and 
had  had  an  old-fashioned  paper  of  bunched  rose- 
buds put  up  there.  It  was  very  long  and  low,  and 
looked  eastward  into  the  fountain  garden,  and 
over  the  tree- tops  far  away  to  the  open  country. 

The  sisters  had  thought  one  of  the  handsome 
modern  rooms  of  the  south  front  would  be  more 
suitable  for  the  bride,  but  Lady  Mary  had  her  way. 
She  preferred  the  older  part  of  the  house,  and 

270 


PETER'S  MOTHER  271 

liked  the  steps  down  into  her  room,  the  uneven 
floor,  the  low  ceiling,  the  quaint  window-seats, 
and  the  powdering  closet  where  she  hung  her 
dresses. 

The  great  oriel  window  formed  almost  a  sitting- 
room  apart.  Here  was  her  writing-table,  whereon 
stood  now  a  green  jar  of  scented  arums  and  trail- 
ing white  fuchsias. 

A  bunch  of  sweet  peas  in  a  corner  of  the 
window-seat  perfumed  the  whole  room,  already 
fragrant  with  potpourri  and  lavender. 

A  low  bookcase  was  filled  with  her  favourite 
volumes;  one  shelf  with  the  story-books  of  her 
childhood,  from  which  she  had  long  ago  read 
aloud  to  Peter,  on  rainy  days  when  he  had  ex- 
hausted all  other  kinds  of  amusement ;  for  he  had 
never  touched  a  book  if  he  could  help  it,  therein 
resembling  his  father. 

In  the  corner  next  the  window  stood  the  cot 
where  Peter  had  slept  often  as  a  little  boy,  and 
which  had  been  playfully  designated  the  hospital, 
because  his  mother  had  always  carried  him 
thither  when  he  was  ill.  Then  she  had  taken  him 
jealously  from  the  care  of  his  attendant,  and  had 
nursed  and  guarded  him  herself  day  and  night, 
until  even  convalescence  was  a  thing  of  the  past. 
She  had  never  suffered  that  little  cot  to  be  moved ; 
the  white  coverlet  had  been  made  and  embroid- 
ered by  her  own  hands.  A  gaudy  oleograph  of  a 
soldier  on  horseback — which  little  Peter  had  been 


272  PETER'S  MOTHER 

fond  of,  and  which  had  been  hung  up  to  amuse 
him  during  one  of  those ,  childish  illnesses — re- 
mained in  its  place.  How  often  had  she  looked 
at  it  through  her  tears  when  Peter  was  far  away! 
Beside  the  cot  stood  a  table  with  a  shabby  book 
of  devotions,  marked  by  a  ribbon  from  which  the 
colour  had  long  since  faded.  The  book  had  be- 
longed to  Lady  Mary's  father,  young  Robbie 
Setoun,  who  had  become  Lord  Ferries  but  one 
short  month  before  he  met  with  a  soldier's  death. 
His  daughter  said  her  prayers  at  this  little  table, 
and  had  carried  thither  her  agony  and  petitions 
for  her  boy  in  his  peril,  during  the  many,  many 
months  of  the  South  African  War. 

The  morning  was  brilliant  and  sunny,  and  the 
upper  casements  stood  open,  to  let  in  the  fresh 
autumn  air,  and  the  song  of  the  robin  balancing 
on  a  swaying  twig  of  the  ivy  climbing  the  old 
walls.  White  clouds  were  blowing  brightly  across 
a  clear,  blue  sky. 

Lady  Mary  stretched  out  her  hand  and  pulled 
a  cord,  which  drew  a  rosy  curtain  half  across  the 
window,  and  shaded  the  corner  where  she  was 
sitting.  She  looked  anxiously  and  tenderly  into 
Peter's  face;  her  quick  instinct  gathered  that 
something  had  shaken  him  from  his  ordinary  mood 
of  criticism  or  indifference. 

"  Are  you  come  to  have  a  little  talk  with  me, 
my  darling?"  she  said. 

She  was  afraid  to  offer  the  caress  she  longed  to 


PETER'S  MOTHER  273 

bestow.  She  moved  from  her  stiff  elbow-chair  to 
the  soft  cushions  in  her  favourite  corner  of  the 
window-seat,  and  held  out  a  timid  hand.  Peter 
clasped  it  in  his  own,  threw  himself  on  a  stool  at 
her  feet,  and  rested  his  forehead  against  her  knee. 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  mother,  and  I 
am  afraid  that,  when  I  have  told  you,  you  will  be 
disappointed  in  me;  that  you  will  think  me  in- 
consistent." 

Her  heart  beat  faster.  "  Which  of  us  is  con- 
sistent in  this  world,  my  darling?  We  all  change 
with  circumstances.  We  are  often  obliged  to 
change,  even  against  our  wills.  Tell  me,  Peter; 
I  shall  understand." 

"There's  not  really  anything  to  tell,"  said 
Peter,  nervously  contradicting  himself,  "because 
nothing  is  exactly  settled  yet.  But  I  think  some- 
thing might  be — before  very  long,  if  you  would 
help  me  to  smooth  away  some  of  the  principal 
difficulties." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Lady  Mary,  venturing  to 
stroke  the  closely  cropped  black  head  resting 
against  her  lap. 

"You  know — Sarah — has  been  teaching  me 
the  new  kind  of  croquet,  at  Hewelscourt,  since  we 
came  back  from  Scotland?"  he  said.  "I  don't 
get  on  so  badly,  considering." 

"My  poor  boy!" 

"  Oh,  I  was  always  rather  inclined  to  be  left- 
handed;  it  comes  in  usefully  now,"  said  Peter, 

18 


274  PETER'S  MOTHER 

who  generally  hurried  over  any  reference  to  his 
misfortune.  "  Well,  this  morning,  whilst  we  were 
playing,  I  asked  Sarah,  for  the  third  time,  to — to 
marry  me.  The  third's  the  lucky  time,  isn't 
it?"  he  said,  with  a  tremulous  laugh,  "and — 
and " 

"  She  said  yes! "  cried  Lady  Mary,  clasping  her 
hands. 

"She  didn't  go  so  far  as  that,"  said  Peter, 
rather  reproachfully.  His  voice  shook  slightly. 
"  But  she  didn't  say  no.  It's  the  first  time  she 
hasn't  said  no." 

"  What  did  she  say? "  said  Lady  Mary. 

She  tried  to  keep  her  feelings  of  indignation 
and  offence  against  Sarah  out  of  her  voice.  After 
all,  who  was  Sarah  that  she  should  presume  to 
refuse  Peter?  Or  for  the  matter  of  that,  to  ac- 
cept him?  Either  course  seems  equally  unpar- 
donable at  times  to  motherly  jealousy,  and  Lady 
Mary  was  half  vexed  and  half  amused  to  find  her- 
self not  exempt  from  this  weakness. 

"Impudent  little  red-headed  thing!"  she  said 
to  herself,  though  she  loved  Sarah  dearly,  and 
admired  her  red  hair  with  all  her  heart. 

"  She  told  me  a  few  of  the  reasons  why  she — 
she  didn't  want  to  marry  me,"  said  Peter. 

Lady  Mary's  dismay  was  rather  too  apparent. 
"Surely  that  doesn't  sound  very  hopeful." 

Peter  moved  impatiently.  "  Oh,  mother,  it  is 
always  so  difficult  to  make  you  understand." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  275 

"Is  it,  indeed?"  she  said,  with  a  faint,  pained 
smile.  "  I  do  my  best,  my  darling." 

"Never  mind;  I  suppose  women  are  always 
rather  slow  of  comprehension,"  said  the  young 
lord  of  creation — "that  is,  except  Sarah.  She 
always  understands.  God  bless  her!" 

"God  bless  her,  indeed!"  said  Lady  Mary, 
gently,  and  the  tears  started  to  her  blue  eyes,  "if 
she  is  going  to  marry  my  boy." 

Peter  repented  his  crossness.  "  Forgive  me, 
mother.  I  know  you  mean  to  be  kind,"  he  said. 
"  You  will  help  me,  won't  you?  " 

"With  all  my  heart,"  she  said,  anxiously; 
""  only  tell  me  how. " 

"You  see,  I  can't  help  feeling,"  said  Peter, 
bashfully,  "that  she  wouldn't  have  told  me  why 
she  couldn't  marry  me,  if  she  hadn't  thought  she 
might  bring  herself  to  do  it  in  the  end,  if  I  got 
over  the  difficulties  she  mentioned.  I've  been — 
hopeful,  ever  since  she  refused  that  ass  of  an  Avon- 
wick,  in  spite  of  Lady  Tintern.  It  wants  some 
courage  to  defy  Lady  Tintern,  I  can  tell  you, 
though  she's  such  a  little  object  to  look  at.  By 
George!  I'd  almost  rather  walk  up  to  a  loaded 
gun  than  face  that  woman's  tongue.  Of  course, 
even  if  my  share  of  the  difficulties  were  re- 
moved, there'd  still  be  Lady  Tintern  against  us. 
But  if  Sarah  can  defy  Lady  Tintern  in  one 
thing,  she  might  in  another.  She's  afraid  of 
nobody." 


276  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"Sarah  certainly  does  not  lack  courage,"  said 
Lady  Mary,  smiling. 

"  I  never  saw  anybody  like  her,"  said  Peter, 
whose  love  possessed  him,  mind,  body,  and  soul. 
"Why,  I've  heard  her  keep  a  whole  roomful  of 
people  laughing,  and  every  one  of  them  as  dull 
as  ditch-water  till  she  came  in.  And  to  see  her 
hold  her  own  against  men  at  games — she's  more 
strength  in  one  of  her  pretty,  white  wrists,"  said 
Peter,  looking  with  an  air  of  disparagement  at  his 
mother's  slender,  delicate  hand,  "than  you  have 
in  your  whole  body,  I  do  believe." 

"She  is  splendidly  strong,"  said  Lady  Mary; 
"the  very  personification  of  youth  and  health." 
She  sighed  softly. 

"And  beauty,"  said  Peter,  excitedly.  "Don't 
leave  that  out.  And  a  good  sort,  through  and 
through,  as  even  you  must  allow,  mother." 

He  spoke  as  though  he  suspected  her  of  be- 
grudging his  praise  of  Sarah,  and  she  made  haste 
to  reply : 

"  Indeed,  she  is  a  good  sort,  dear  little  Sarah." 

"She  is  very  fond  of  you,"  Peter  said,  in  a 
choking  voice.  It  seemed  to  him,  in  his  infatua- 
tion, so  touching  that  Sarah  should  be  fond  of  any 
one.  "  She  was  dreadfully  afraid  of  hurting  your 
feelings;  but  yet,  as  she  said,  she  was  bound  to 
be  frank  with  me." 

"  Oh,  Peter,  do  tell  me  what  you  mean.  You 
are  keeping  me  on  thorns,"  said  Lady  Mary. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  277 

She  grew  red  and  white  by  turns.  Was  John's 
happiness  in  sight  already,  as  well  as  Peter's? 

"  It's — it's  most  awfully  hard  to  tell  you,"  said 
Peter. 

He  rose,  and  leant  his  elbow  against  the  stone 
mullion  nearest  her,  looking  down  anxiously  upon 
her  as  he  spoke. 

"After  all  I  said  to  you  when  we  first  came 
home,  it's  awfully  hard.  But  if  you  would  only 
understand,  you  could  make  it  all  easy  enough." 

"  I  will — I  do  understand." 

But  Peter  could  not  make  up  his  mind  even 
now  to  be  explicit. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "Sarah  is — not  like  other 
girls." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  his  mother. 

She  controlled  her  impatience,  reminding  her- 
self that  Peter  was  very  young,  and  that  he  had 
never  been  in  love  before. 

"She's  a  kind  of — of  queen,"  said  Peter, 
dreamily.  "  I  only  wish  you  could  have  seen 
what  it  was  in  London." 

"I  can  imagine  it,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"  No,  you  couldn't.  I  hadn't  an  idea  what  she 
would  be  there,  until  I  went  to  London  and  saw 
for  myself,"  said  Peter,  who  measured  everybody's 
imagination  by  his  own. 

"You  see,"  he  explained  "my  position  here, 
which  seems  so  important  to  you  and  the  other 
people  round  here,  and  used  to  seem  so  important 


278  PETER'S  MOTHER 

to  me — is — just  nothing  at  all  compared  to  what 
has  been  cast  at  her  feet,  as  it  were,  over  and  over 
again,  for  her  to  pick  up  if  she  chose.  And  this 
house,"  said  Peter,  glancing  round  and  shaking 
his  head — "this  house,  which  seems  so  beautiful 
to  you  now  it's  all  done  up,  if  you'd  only  seen  the 
houses  she's  accustomed  to  staying  at.  Tintern 
Castle,  for  instance — 

"I  was  born  in  a  greater  house  than  Tintern 
Castle,  Peter,"  said  Lady  Mary,  gently. 

"Oh,  of  course.  I'm  saying  nothing  against 
Ferries,"  said  Peter,  impatiently.  "But  you 
only  lived  there  as  a  child.  A  child  doesn't 
notice." 

"Some  children  don't,"  said  Lady  Mary,  with 
that  faint,  wondering  smile  which  hid  her  pain 
from  Peter,  and  would  have  revealed  it  so  clearly 
to  John. 

"It  isn't  that  Sarah  minds  this  old  house," 
said  Peter ;  "  she  was  saying  what  a  pretty  room 
she  could  make  of  the  drawing-room  only  the  other 
day." 

Lady  Mary  felt  an  odd  pang  at  her  heart.  She 
thought  of  the  trouble  John  had  taken  to  choose 
the  best  of  the  water-colours  for  the  rose-tinted 
room — the  room  he  had  declared  so  bright  and  so 
charming — of  the  pretty  curtains  and  chintzes; 
and  the  valuable  old  china  she  had  collected  from 
every  part  of  the  house  for  the  cabinets. 

"You  see,  she's  got  that  sort  of  thing  at  her 


PETER'S  MOTHER  279 

fingers'  ends,  Lady  Tintern  being  such  a  con- 
noisseur," said  the  unconscious  Peter.  "But 
she's  so  afraid  of  hurting  your  feelings — 

"Why  should  she  be?"  said  Lady  Mary, 
coldly,  in  spite  of  herself.  "  If  she  does  not  like 
the  drawing-room,  she  can  easily  alter  it." 

"That's  what  I  say,"  said  Peter,  with  a  touch 
of  his  father's  pomposity.  "Surely  a  bride  has 
a  right  to  look  forward  to  arranging  her  home 
as  she  chooses.  And  Sarah  is  mad  about  old 
French  furniture — Louis  Seize,  I  think  it  is — but 
I  know  nothing  about  such  things.  I  think  a 
man  should  leave  the  choice  of  furniture,  and 
all  that,  to  his  wife — especially  when  her  taste 
happens  to  be  as  good  as  Sarah's." 

"  I — I  think  so  too,  Peter,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

Her  thoughts  wandered  momentarily  into  the 
past ;  but  his  eager  tones  recalled  her  attention. 

"Then  you  won't  mind,  so  far?"  said  Peter, 
anxiously. 

"I — why  should  I  mind?"  said  Lady  Mary, 
starting.  "I  believe — I  have  read — that  old 
French  furniture  is  all  the  rage  now."  Then  she 
bethought  herself,  and  uttered  a  faint  laugh. 
"  But  I'm  afraid  your  aunts  might  make  it  a  little 
uncomfortable  for  her,  if  she — tried  to  alter  any- 
thing. I — go  my  own  way  now,  and  don't  mind 
— but  a  young  bride — does  not  always  like  to  be 
found  fault  with.  She  might  find  that  relations- 
in-law  are  sometimes — a  little  trying." 


280  PETER'S  MOTHER 

Lady  Mary  felt,  as  she  spoke  these  words,  that 
she  was  somehow  opening  a  way  for  herself  as  well 
as  for  Peter.  She  wondered,  with  a  beating  heart, 
whether  the  moment  had  come  in  which  she  ought 
to  tell  him 

"That's  just  it,"  said  Peter's  voice,  breaking 
in  on  her  thoughts.  "That's  just  what  Sarah 
means,  and  what  I  was  trying  to  lead  up  to ;  only 
I'm  no  diplomatist.  But  that's  one  of  the  greatest 
objections  she  has  to  marrying  me,  quite  apart 
from  disappointing  her  aunt.  I  can't  blame 
Lady  Tintern,"  said  Peter,  with  a  new  and  strange 
humility,  "for  not  thinking  me  good  enough  for 
Sarah ;  and  that's  not  a  difficulty  /  can  ever  hope 
to  remove.  Sarah  is  the  one  to  decide  that  point. 
But  about  relations-in-law — it's  what  I've  been 
trying  to  tell  you  all  this  time."  He  cleared  his 
throat,  which  had  grown  dry  and  husky.  "  She 
says  that  when  she  marries  she — she  intends  to 
have  her  house  to  herself." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  I  see,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

She  was  silent;  not,  as  Peter  thought,  with 
mortification ;  but  because  she  could  not  make  up 
her  mind  what  words  to  choose,  in  which  to  tell 
him  that  it  was  freedom  and  happiness  he  was 
thus  offering  her  with  both  hands ;  and  not,  as  he 
thought,  loneliness  and  disappointment. 

Twice  she  essayed  to  speak,  and  failed  through 
sheer  embarrassment.  The  second  time  Peter 


PETER'S  MOTHER  281 

lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips.  She  felt  through  all 
her  consciousness  the  shy  remorse  which  prompted 
that  rare  caress. 

"The— the  Dower  House,"  faltered  Peter,  "is 
only  a  few  yards  away." 

A  sudden  desire  to  laugh  aloud  seized  Lady 
Mary.  His  former  words  returned  upon  her 
memory. 

"  It's — it's  rather  damp,  isn't  it?"  she  said,  in 
a  shaking  voice. 

He  looked  into  her  face,  and  did  not  under- 
stand the  brightness  of  the  smile  that  was  shining 
through  her  tears. 

"But  it's  very  picturesque,"  said  Peter,  "and 
— and  roomy.  You  and  my  aunts  would  be  quite 
snug  there ;  and  it  could  be  very  prettily  decorated, 
Sarah  says." 

"Perhaps  Sarah  would  advise  us  on  the  sub- 
ject?" said  Lady  Mary,  unable  to  resist  this 
thrust. 

"I'm  sure  she'd  be  delighted,"  said  Peter, 
simply. 

Lady  Mary  fell  back  on  her  cushions  and 
laughed  helplessly,  almost  hysterically. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  laugh,"  said 
Peter,  in  a  rather  sore  tone.  "  I  don't  know  how 
it  is,  but  I  never  can  understand  you,  mother." 

"  I  see  you  can't.  Never  mind,  Peter,"  said 
Lady  Mary.  She  sat  up,  and  lifted  her  pretty 
hands  to  smooth  the  soft  waves  of  her  brown 


282  PETER'S  MOTHER 

hair.  "  So  I'm  to  settle  down  happily  in  my  Dower 
House,  and  take  your  aunts  to  live  with  me?" 

"  Why,  you  see,"  said  Peter,  "  we  couldn't  very 
well  let  the  poor  old  things  wander  away  alone 
into  the  world,  could  we?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Lady  Mary,  slowly,  "  that  they 
can  take  care  of  themselves.  And  it  is  just  possi- 
ble that  they  may  have  foreseen — your  change  of 
intentions." 

"Women  can  never  take  care  of  themselves," 
said  Peter.  "And  how  can  they  have  foreseen? 
I  had  no  idea  myself  of  this  happening.  But  they 
would  be  perfectly  happy  in  the  Dower  House ;  it 
is  close  by,  and  I  could  see  them  very  often.  It 
wouldn't  be  like  leaving  Barracombe." 

"Yes,  I  think  they  could  be  happy  there," 
said  Lady  Mary.  She  felt  that  the  moment  had 
come  at  last.  Her  heart  beat  thickly,  and  her 
colour  came  and  went.  "  But  if  they  were  happily 
settled  at  the  Dower  House,"  she  said  slowly,  for 
her  agitation  was  making  her  breathless,  and  she 
did  not  want  Peter  to  notice  it," — I  would  will- 
ingly give  it  up  to  them  altogether.  It  could  not 
matter  whether  /  were  there  or  not.  Though 
they  are  old,  they  are  perfectly  able  to  look  after 
themselves — and  other  people ;  and  if  they  were 
not,  they  would  not  like  me  to  take  care  of  them. 
They  have  their  own  servants  and  Mrs.  Ash. 
And  they  have  never  liked  me,  Peter,  though  we 
have  lived  together  so  many  years." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  283 

"That  is  nonsense,"  said  Peter,  very  calmly; 
"and  if  they  don't  want  you  there,  mother,  /  do. 
Of  course  you  must  live  at  the  Dower  House ;  my 
father  left  it  to  you.  And  I  shall  want  you  more 
than  ever  now." 

"  I  don't  see  how,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"  Why,  we — Sarah  and  I,"  said  Peter,  lingering 
fondly  over  the  words  which  linked  that  beloved 
name  with  his  own,  "if  we  ever — if  it  ever  came 
off — we  shall  naturally  be  away  from  home  a  good 
deal.  I  couldn't  ask  Sarah  to  tie  herself  down  to 
this  dull  old  place,  could  I?" 

"  I  suppose  not,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"  She's  accustomed  to  going  about  the  world  a 
good  deal,"  said  Peter. 

"No  doubt." 

"  Even  7,"  said  Peter,  turning  a  flushed  face  to- 
wards his  mother — "  I  am  too  young,  as  Sarah  says 
— and  I  feel  it  myself  since  I  have  seen  something 
of  the  life  she  lives — to  become  a  complete  fixture, 
like  my  father  was.  It's — it's,  as  Sarah  says — it's 
narrowing.  I  can  see  the  effects  of  it  upon  you 
all,"  said  Peter,  calmly,  "  when  I  come  back  here." 

He  could  not  fathom  the  wistfulness  which 
clouded  the  blue  eyes  she  lifted  to  his  face. 

"  It  is  very  narrowing,"  she  said  humbly. 

"  One  may  devote  one's  self  to  one's  duties  as  a 
landed  proprietor,"  said  Peter,  with  another  recur- 
rence of  pomposity,  "and  yet  see  something  of 
one's  fellow-men." 


284  PETER'S  MOTHER 

He  replaced  the  eyeglass,  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  room  for  a  few  moments,  as  though  he 
were  pacing  a  quarter-deck.  He  looked  very  tall, 
and  very,  very  slight  and  thin;  older  than  his 
years,  tanned  and  dried  by  the  African  sun,  which 
had  enhanced  his  natural  darkness.  Though  he 
spoke  as  a  boy,  he  looked  like  a  man.  His 
mother's  heart  yearned  over  him. 

Peter  had  taken  his  lack  of  perception  with  him 
into  the  heart  of  South  Africa,  and  brought  it  back 
intact.  Because  his  body  had  travelled  many 
hundreds  of  miles  over  land  and  sea,  he  believed 
that  his  mind  had  opened  in  proportion  to  the  dis- 
tance covered.  He  knew  that  men  and  women 
of  action  pick  up  knowledge  of  the  world  without 
pausing  on  their  busy  way ;  but  he  did  not  know 
that  it  is  to  the  silent,  the  sorrowful,  and  the 
solitary — to  those  who  have  time  to  listen — that 
God  reveals  the  secrets  of  life. 

She  said  to  herself  that  everything  about  him 
was  dear  to  her ;  his  grey  eyes,  that  never  saw  be- 
low the  surface  of  things;  his  thin,  brown  face; 
his  youthful  affectation ;  the  strange,  new  growth 
which  shaded  his  long  upper  lip,  and  softened  the 
plainness  of  the  Crewys  physiognomy,  which  Peter 
would  not  have  bartered  for  the  handsomest  set  of 
Greek  features  ever  imagined  by  a  sculptor.  Even 
for  his  faults  Lady  Mary  had  a  tender  toleration ; 
for  Peter  would  not  have  been  Peter  without  them. 

"It  would  not  be  fair  on  Sarah,  knowing  all 


PETER'S  MOTHER  285 

London — worth  knowing — as  she  does,"  said  Peter 
with  pardonable  exaggeration,  "  to  rob  her  of  the 
season  altogether.  We  shall  go  up  regularly, 
every  year,  if — if  she  marries  me.  Of  that  I  am 
determined,  and  so" — incidentally — "is  she." 

"Nothing  could  be  nicer,"  said  Lady  Mary, 
heartily  enough  to  satisfy  even  Peter. 

He  spoke  with  more  warmth  and  naturalness. 
"She  likes  to  go  abroad,  mother,  too,  now  and 
then,"  he  said. 

"That  would  be  delightful,"  said  Lady  Mary, 
eagerly.  Her  blue  eyes  sparkled.  Her  interest 
and  enthusiasm  were  easily  roused,  after  all ;  and 
surely  these  new  ideas  would  make  it  much  easier 
to  tell  Peter.  "  Oh,  Peter!  "  she  said,  clasping  her 
hands,  "  Paris — Rome — Switzerland ! " 

"Wherever  Sarah  fancies,"  said  Peter,  mag- 
nanimously. "I  can't  say  I  care  much.  All  I 
am  thinking  of  is — being  with  her.  It  doesn't 
matter  where,  so  long  as  she  is  pleased.  What 
does  anything  matter,"  he  said,  and  his  dark  face 
softened  as  she  had  never  seen  it  soften  yet,  "so 
long  as  one  is  with  the  companion  one  loves  best  in 
the  world?" 

"  It  would  be — Paradise,"  said  Lady  Mary,  in  a 
low  voice;  and  she  thought  to  herself  resolutely, 
"I  will  tell  him  now." 

Peter  ceased  his  walk,  and  came  close  to  her 
and  took  her  hand.  The  emotion  had  not  alto- 
gether died  out  of  his  voice  and  face. 


286  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  But  you  are  not  to  think,  mother,  that  I  shall 
ever  again  be  the  selfish  boy  I  used  to  be — the  boy 
who  didn't  value  your  love  and  devotion." 

"No,  dear,  no,"  she  answered,  with  wet  eyes; 
"  I  will  never  think  so.  We  can  love  each  other 
just  the  same,  perhaps  even  better,  even  though — 
Oh,  Peter " 

But  Peter  was  in  no  mind  to  brook  interrup- 
tion. He  was  burning  to  pour  out  his  plans  for  her 
future,  and  his  own. 

"  Wherever  we  may  go,  and  whatever  we  may 
be  doing,"  he  said  emotionally,  "it  will  be  a  joy 
and  a  comfort  to  me  to  know  that  my  dear  old 
mother  is  always  here.  Taking  care  of  the  place 
and  looking  after  the  people,  and  waiting  always 
to  welcome  me,  with  her  old  sweet  smile  on  her 
dear  old  face." 

Peter  was  not  often  moved  to  such  enthusiasm, 
and  he  was  almost  overcome  by  his  own  eloquence 
in  describing  this  beautiful  picture. 

Lady  Mary  was  likewise  overcome.  She  sank 
back  once  more  in  her  cushioned  corner,  looking 
at  him  with  a  blank  dismay  that  could  not  escape 
even  his  dull  observation.  How  impossible  it  was 
to  tell  Peter,  after  all!  How  impossible  he  al- 
ways made  it! 

"  I  know  you  must  feel  it  just,  at  first,"  he  said 
anxiously;  "but  you — you  can't  expect  to  keep 
me  all  to  yourself  for  ever." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  tried  to  smile. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  287 

He  grew  a  little  impatient.  "After  all,"  he 
said,  "you  must  be  reasonable,  mother.  Every- 
one has  to  live  his  own  life." 

Then  Lady  Mary  found  words.  A  sudden 
rush  of  indignation — the  pent-up  feelings  of  years 
— brought  the  scarlet  blood  to  her  cheeks  and  the 
fire  to  her  gentle,  blue  eyes. 

"Every  one — but  me,"  she  said,  trembling 
violently. 

"You!"  said  Peter,  astonished. 

She  clasped  her  hands  against  her  bosom  to 
still  the  panting  and  throbbing  that,  it  seemed  to 
her,  must  be  evident  outwardly,  so  strong  was  the 
emotion  that  shook  her  fragile  form. 

"Every  one — but  me,"  she  said.  "Does  it 
never — strike  you — Peter — that  I,  too,  would 
like  to  live  before  I  die?  Whilst  you  are  living 
your  own  life,  why  shouldn't  I  be  living  mine? 
Why  shouldn't  I  go  to  London,  and  to  Paris,  and 
to  Rome,  and  to  Switzerland,  or  wherever  I 
choose,  now  that  you — you — have  set  me  free?" 

"Mother,"  said  Peter,  aghast,  "are  you  gone 
mad?" 

"Perhaps  I  am  a  little  mad,"  said  poor  Lady 
Mary.  "People  go  mad  sometimes,  who  have 
been  too  long — in  prison — they  say."  Then  she 
saw  his  real  alarm,  and  laughed  till  she  cried.  "  I 
am  not  really  mad,"  she  said.  "Do  not  be 
frightened,  Peter.  I— I  was  only  joking." 

"  It  is  enough  to  frighten  anybody  when  you  go 


288  PETER'S  MOTHER 

on  like  that,"  said  Peter,  relieved,  but  angry. 
"  Talking  of  prison,  and  rushing  about  all  over  the 
world — I  see  no  joke  in  that." 

"  Why  should  I  be  the  only  one  who  must  not 
rush  all  over  the  world?"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"You  must  know  perfectly  well  it  would  be 
preposterous,"  said  Peter,  sullenly,  "to  break  up 
all  your  habits,  and  leave  Barracombe  and — and 
all  of  us — and  start  a  fresh  life — at  your  age. 
And  if  this  is  how  you  mock  at  me  and  all  my 
plans,  I'm  sorry  I  ever  took  you  into  my  con- 
fidence at  all.  I  might  have  known  I  should 
repent  it,"  he  said ;  and  a  sob  of  angry  resentment 
broke  his  voice. 

"  Indeed,  I  am  not  mocking  at  you,  Peter,"  she 
said,  sorely  repentant  and  ashamed  of  her  out- 
burst. "Forgive  me,  darling!  I  see  it  was — not 
the  moment.  You  do  not  understand.  You  are 
thinking  only  of  Sarah,  as  is  natural  just  now.  It 
was  not  the  moment  for  me  to  be  talking  of  my- 
self." 

"You  never  used  to  be  selfish,"  said  Peter, 
thawing  somewhat,  as  she  threw  her  arms  about 
him,  and  rested  her  head  against  his  shoulder. 

She  laughed  rather  sadly.  "  But  perhaps  I  am 
growing  selfish — in  my  old  age,"  said  Peter's 
mother. 

Later,  Lady  Mary  sought  John  Crewys  in  the 
smoking-room.  He  sprang  up,  smiled  at  her,  and 
held  out  his  hand. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  289 

"So  Peter  has  been  confiding  his  schemes  to 
you?" 

"  How  did  you  know?" 

"  I  only  guessed.  When  a  man  seeks  a  t§te-b~ 
tete  so  earnestly,  it  is  generally  to  talk  about  him- 
self. Did  the  schemes  include — Sarah?" 

"  They  include  Sarah — marriage — travelling — 
London — change  of  every  kind." 

"Already!"  cried  John,  "Bravo,  Peter!  and 
hurray  for  one-and-twenty !  And  you  are  free?" 

" Oh,  no ;  I  am  not  to  be  free." 

"What!     Do  his  schemes  include  you?" 

"Not  altogether." 

"  That  is  surely  illogical,  if  yours  are  to  include 
him?" 

She  smiled  faintly.  "  I  am  to  be  always  here, 
to  look  after  the  place  when  he  and  Sarah  are 
travelling  or  in  London.  I  am  to  live  with  his 
aunts.  He  wants  to  be  able  to  think  of  me  as 
always  waiting  here  to  welcome  him  home,  as — as 
I  have  been  all  his  life.  Not  actually  in  this  house, 
because — Sarah — my  little  Sarah — wouldn't  like 
that,  it  seems;  but  in  the  Dower  House,  close 
by." 

"  I  see,"  said  John.  "  How  delightfully  ingen- 
uous, and  how  pleasingly  unselfish  a  very  young 
man  can  sometimes  be!" 

"Ah!  don't  laugh  at  me,  John,"  she  said 
tremulously.  "  Indeed,  just  now,  I  cannot  bear 
it." 


290  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"Laugh  at  you,  my  queen — my  saint!  How 
little  you  know  me!"  said  John,  tenderly.  "It 
was  at  Peter  that  I  was  presuming  to  smile." 

"  Is  it  a  laughing  matter? "  she  said  wistfully. 

"  I  think  it  will  be,  Mary." 

"  I  tried  so  hard  to  tell  him,"  said  Lady  Mary, 
' '  but  I  couldn '  t .  Somehow  he  made  it  i  mpossible . 
He  looks  upon  me  as  quite,  quite  old." 

John  laughed  outright.  A  laugh  that  rang 
true  even  to  Lady  Mary's  sensitive  perceptions. 

"But  didn't  you  look  upon  everybody  over 
thirty  as  quite  old  when  you  were  one-and-twenty? 
I'm  sure  I  did." 

"  Perhaps.  But  yet — I  don't  know.  I  am  his 
mother.  It  is  natural  he  should  feel  so.  He 
made  me  realize  how  preposterous  it  was  for  me, 
the  mother  of  a  grown-up  son,  to  be  thinking 
selfishly  of  my  own  happiness,  as  though  I  were  a 
young,  fresh  girl  just  starting  life." 

"  I  had  hoped,"  said  John,  quietly,  "that  you 
might  be  thinking  a  little  of  my  happiness  too." 

"Oh,  John!  But  your  happiness  and  mine 
seemed  all  the  same  thing,"  she  said  ingenuously. 
"Yet  he  thinks  of  my  life  as  finished;  and  I  was 
thinking  of  it  as  though  it  were  beginning  all  over 
again.  He  made  me  feel  so  ashamed,  so  con- 
science-stricken." She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 
"How  could  I  tell  him?" 

"  I  think,"  said  John,  "  that  the  time  has  come 
when  he  must  be  told.  I  meant  to  put  it  of!  un- 


PETER'S  MOTHER  291 

til  he  attained  his  majority;  but  since  he  has 
broached  the  subject  of  your  leaving  this  house 
himself,  he  has  given  us  the  best  opportunity 
possible.  And  I  also  think — that  the  telling  had 
better  be  left  to  me." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

JOHN  CREWYS  stood  on  the  walk  below  the  terrace, 
with  Peter  by  his  side,  enjoying  an  after-breakfast 
smoke,  and  watching  a  party  of  sportsmen  climb- 
ing up  the  bracken-clothed  slopes  of  the  opposite 
hillside.  A  dozen  beaters  were  toiling  after  the 
guns,  among  whom  the  short  and  sturdy  figure  of 
Colonel  Hewel  was  very  plainly  to  be  distinguished. 
A  boy  was  leading  a  pony-cart  for  the  game. 

Sarah  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  dine  and 
spend  the  evening  with  her  beloved  Lady  Mary  at 
Barracombe ;  but  Peter  had  another  appointment 
with  her  besides,  of  which  Lady  Mary  knew 
nothing.  He  was  to  meet  her  at  the  ferry,  and 
picnic  on  the  moor  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  on  his 
side  of  the  river.  But  through  all  the  secret  joy 
and  triumph  that  possessed  him  at  the  remem- 
brance of  this  rendezvous,  he  could  not  but  sigh 
as  he  watched  the  little  procession  of  sportsmen 
opposite,  and  almost  involuntarily  his  regret  es- 
caped him  in  the  half -muttered  words — 

"  I  shall  never  shoot  again." 

"There  are  things  even  better  worth  doing  in 
life,"  said  John,  sympathetically. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  293 

"Colonel  Hewel  wouldn't  give  in  to  that," 
said  Peter. 

"He's  rather  a  one-idea'd  man,"  John  agreed. 
"  But  if  you  asked  him  whether  he'd  sacrifice  all 
the  sport  he's  ever  likely  to  enjoy,  for  one  chance 
to  distinguish  himself  in  action — why,  you're  a 
soldier,  and  you  know  best  what  he'd  say." 

Peter's  brow  cleared.  "You've  got  a  knack," 
he  said,  almost  graciously,  "  of  putting  a  fellow  in 
a  good  humour  with  himself,  Cousin  John." 

"  I  generally  find  it  easier  to  be  in  a  good 
humour  with  myself  than  with  other  people,"  said 
John,  whimsically.  "One  expects  so  little  from 
one's  self,  that  one  is  scarcely  ever  disappointed; 
and  so  much  from  other  people,  that  nothing  they 
can  do  comes  up  to  one's  expectations." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Peter, 
bluntly.  "Old  Crawley  says  you  take  it  out  of 
yourself  like  anything.  Since  I  came  back  this 
time,  he's  been  holding  forth  to  me  about  all 
you've  done  for  me  and  the  estate,  and  all  that.  I 
didn't  know  my  father  had  left  things  in  such  a 
mess.  And  that  was  a  smart  thing  you  did  about 
buying  in  the  farm,  and  settling  the  dispute  with 
the  Crown,  which  my  father  used  to  be  so  worried 
over.  I  see  I've  got  a  good  bit  to  thank  you 
for,  Cousin  John.  I — I'm  no  end  grateful,  and 
all  that." 

"All  right,"  said  John.  "Don't  bother  to 
make  speeches,  old  boy." 


294  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"I  must  say  one  thing,  though,"  said  Peter, 
awkwardly.  "  I  was  against  all  the  changes,  and 
thought  they  might  have  been  left  till  I  came 
home;  but  I  didn't  realize  it  was  to  be  now  or 
never,  as  old  Crawley  puts  it,  and  that  I'm  not  to 
have  the  right  to  touch  my  capital  when  I  come  of 
age." 

"The  whole  arrangement  was  rather  an  un- 
usual one ;  but  everything's  worked  out  all  right, 
and,  as  far  as  the  estate  goes,  you'll  find  it  in 
pretty  fair  order  to  start  upon,  and  values  in- 
creased," said  John,  quietly.  "But  Crawley  has 
the  whole  thing  at  his  fingers'  ends,  and  the  in- 
terest of  the  place  thoroughly  at  heart.  You 
couldn't  have  a  better  adviser." 

"  He's  well  enough,"  said  Peter,  somewhat  un- 
graciously. 

"Shall  we  take  a  turn  up  and  down?"  said 
John.  He  lighted  a  fresh  cigarette.  "  There  is  a 
chill  feeling  in  the  air,  though  it  is  such  a  lovely 
morning." 

"It  will  be  warmer  when  the  sun  has  con- 
quered the  mist,"  said  Peter,  with  a  slight  shiver. 

The  white  dew  on  the  long  grass,  and  the 
gossamer  cobwebs  spun  in  a  single  night  from 
twig  to  twig  of  the  rose-trees,  glittered  in  the 
sunshine. 

The  autumn  roses  bloomed  cheerfully  in  the 
long  border,  and  the  robins  were  singing  loudly 
on  the  terrace  above.  The  heavy  heads  of  the 


PETER'S  MOTHER  295 

dahlias  drooped  beneath  their  weight  of  moisture, 
in  these  last  days  of  their  existence,  before  the 
frost  would  bring  them  to  a  sudden  end.  Capu- 
cines,  in  every  shade  of  brown  and  crimson  and 
gold,  ran  riot  over  the  ground. 

Peter  drew  a  pipe  from  his  pocket,  put  it  in 
his  mouth,  took  out  his  tobacco-pouch,  and  filled 
the  pipe  with  his  left  hand. 

John  watched  him  with  interest.  "That  was 
dexterously  done." 

"I'm  getting  pretty  handy,"  said  the  hero, 
with  satisfaction,  striking  a  match;  "but" — his 
face  fell  anew — "no  more  football;  one  feels  that 
sort  of  thing  just  at  the  beginning  of  the  season. 
No  more  games.  It  wouldn't  tell  so  much  on  a 
fellow  like  you,  Cousin  John,  who's  perfectly 
happy  with  a  book,  and  who — 

"Who's  too  old  for  games,"  suggested  John. 

"Oh,  there's  always  golf,"  said  Peter. 

"A  refuge  for  the  aged,  eh?"  said  John,  and 
his  eyes  twinkled.  "  But  Miss  Sarah  says  you  bid 
fair  to  beat  her  at  croquet." 

"Oh,  she  was — just  rotting,"  said  Peter;  and 
the  tone  touched  John,  though  he  detested  slang. 
"And  what's  croquet,  after  all,  to  a  fellow  that's 
used  to  exercise?  I  suppose  I  shall  be  all  right 
again  hunting,  when  I've  got  my  nerve  back  a 
bit.  At  present  it's  rotten.  A  fellow  feels  so 
beastly  helpless  and  one-sided.  However,  that'll 
wear  off,  I  expect." 


296  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  John. 

They  reached  the  end  of  the  long  walk,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  beneath  the  eastern  turret, 
watching  the  sparkles  on  the  brown  surface  of  the 
river  below,  and  the  white  mist  floating  away 
down  the  valley. 

"Talking  of  advice,"  said  Peter,  abruptly — 
"if  I  wanted  that,  I'd  rather  come  to  you  than  to 
old  Crawley.  After  all,  though  you  won't  be  my 
guardian  much  longer,  you're  still  my  mother's 
trustee." 

"Yes,"  said  John,  smiling;  "the  law  still  en- 
titles me  to  take  an  interest  in — in  your  mother." 

"  Of  course  I  shouldn't  dream  of  mentioning 
her  affairs,  or  mine  either,  for  that  matter,  to  any 
one  else,"  said  Peter. 

He  made  an  exception  in  his  own  mind,  but 
decided  that  it  was  not  necessary  to  explain  this 
to  John,  for  the  moment. 

"Thank  you,  Peter,"  said  John. 

"My  mother — seems  to  me,"  said  Peter, 
slowly,  "  to  have  changed  very  much  since  I  went 
to  South  Africa.  Have  you  noticed  it?" 

"I  have,"  said  John,  dryly. 

"I  don't  suppose,"  said  Peter,  quickening  his 
steps,  "  that  any  one  could  realize  exactly  what  I 
feel  about  it." 

"  I  think — perhaps — I  could,"  said  John, 
without  visible  satire,  "  dimly  and,  no  doubt,  in- 
adequately." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  297 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Peter,  and  the  warm  colour 
rushed  into  his  brown  face,  even  to  his  thin  tem- 
ples, "I — I'm  hoping  to  get  married  very  soon; 
though  nothing's  exactly  settled  yet." 

"A  man  in  your  position  generally  marries 
early,"  said  John.  "  I  think  you're  quite  right." 

"As  my  mother  likes — the  girl  I  want  to 
marry,"  said  Peter,  "  I  hoped  it  would  make 
everything  straight.  But  she  seems  quite  miser- 
able at  the  thought  of  settling  down  quietly  in 
the  Dower  House." 

"  Ah!  in  the  Dower  House,"  said  John.  "  Then 
you  will  not  be  wanting  her  to  live  here  with  you, 
after  all?" 

" It's  the  same  thing,  though,"  said  Peter,  "as 
I've  tried  to  explain  to  her.  She'd  be  only  a  few 
yards  off ;  and  she  could  still  be  looking  after  the 
place  and  my  interests,  and  all  that,  as  she  does 
now.  And  whenever  I  was  down  here,  I  should 
see  her  constantly;  you  know  how  devoted  I  am 
to  my  mother.  Of  course  I  can't  deny  I  did  lead 
her  to  hope  I  should  be  always  with  her.  But  a 
man  can't  help  it  if  he  happens  to  fall  in  love.  Of 
course,  if — if  all  happens  as  I  hope,  as  I  have 
reason  to  hope,  I  shall  have  to  be  away  from  her 
a  good  deal.  But  that's  all  in  the  course  of  na- 
ture as  a  fellow  grows  up.  I  sha'n't  be  any  the 
less  glad  to  see  her  when  I  do  come  home.  And 
yet  here  she  is  talking  quite  wildly  of  leaving 
Barracombe  altogether,  and  going  to  London,  and 


298  PETER'S  MOTHER 

travelling  all  ever  the  world,  and  doing  all  sorts  of 
things  she's  never  done  in  her  life.  It's  not  like 
my  mother,  and  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  her 
like  that.  I  tell  you  she's  changed  altogether," 
said  Peter,  and  there  were  tears  in  his  grey 
eyes. 

John  felt  an  odd  sympathy  for  the  boy;  he 
recognized  that  though  Peter's  limitations  were 
obvious,  his  anxiety  was  sincere. 

Peter,  too,  had  his  ideals ;  if  they  were  ideals 
conventional  and  out  of  date,  that  was  hardly 
his  fault.  John  figured  to  himself  very  distinctly 
that  imaginary  mother  whom  Peter  held  sacred; 
the  mother  who  stayed  always  at  home,  and 
parted  her  hair  plainly,  and  said  many  prayers, 
and  did  much  needlework ;  but  who,  nevertheless, 
was  not,  and  never  could  be,  the  real  Lady  Mary, 
whom  Peter  did  not  know.  But  it  was  a  tender 
ideal  in  its  way,  though  it  belonged  to  that  past 
into  which  so  many  tender  and  beautiful  visions 
have  faded. 

The  maiden  of  to-day  still  dreams  of  the 
knightly  armour-clad  heroes  of  the  twelfth  cent- 
ury ;  it  is  not  her  fault  that  she  is  presently  glad 
to  fall  in  love  with  a  gentleman  on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change, in  a  top  hat  and  a  frock  coat. 

"  I  have  seen  something  of  women  of  the 
world,"  said  Peter,  who  had  scarcely  yet  skimmed 
the  bubbles  from  the  surface  of  that  society, 
whose  depths  he  believed  himself  to  have  ex- 


PETER'S  MOTHER  299 

plored.  "I  suppose  that  is  what  my  mother 
wants  to  turn  into,  when  she  talks  of  London  and 
Paris.  My  mother!  who  has  lived  in  the  country 
all  her  life." 

"I  suppose  some  women  are  worldly,"  said 
John,  as  gravely  as  possible,  "and  no  doubt  the 
shallow-hearted,  the  stupid,  the  selfish  are  to  be 
found  everywhere,  and  belonging  to  either  sex; 
but,  nevertheless,  solid  virtue  and  true  kindness 
are  to  be  met  with  among  the  dames  of  Mayfair 
as  among  the  matrons  of  the  country-side.  Their 
shibboleth  is  different,  that's  all.  Perhaps— it  is 
possible — that  the  speech  of  the  town  ladies  is  the 
more  charitable,  that  they  seek  more  persistently 
to  do  good  to  their  fellow-creatures.  I  don't 
know.  Comparisons  are  odious,  but  so,"  he 
added,  with  a  slight  laugh,  "are  general  conclu- 
sions, founded  on  popular  prejudice  rather  than 
individual  experience — odious." 

Here  John  perceived  that  his  words  of  wisdom 
were  conveying  hardly  any  meaning  to  Peter,  who 
was  only  waiting  impatiently  till  he  had  come  to 
an  end  of  them;  so  he  pursued  this  topic  no 
further,  and  contented  himself  by  inquiring: 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do? " 

"I  want  you  to  explain  to  her,"  said  Peter, 
eagerly,  "how  unsuitable  it  would  be;  and  to 
advise  her  to  settle  down  quietly  at  the  Dower 
House,  as  I'm  sure  my  father  would  have  wished 
her  to  do.  That's  all." 


300  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"I  see,"  said  John,  "you  want  me  to  put  the 
case  to  her  from  your  point  of  view." 

"I  wish  you  would,"  said  Peter,  earnestly; 
"every  one  says  you're  so  eloquent.  Surely  you 
could  talk  her  over?" 

"I  hope  I  am  not  eloquent  in  private  life," 
said  John,  laughing.  "  But  if  you  want  to  know 
how  it  appears  to  me ?" 

Peter  nodded  gravely,  pipe  in  mouth. 

"Let  us  see.  To  start  with,"  said  John, 
thoughtfully,  "you  went  off,  a  boy  from  Eton, 
to  serve  your  country  when  you  thought,  and 
rightly,  that  your  country  had  need  of  you.  You 
distinguished  yourself  in  South  Africa ' 

"Surely  you  needn't  go  into  all  that?"  said 
Peter,  staring. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  John,  smiling.  "  In  putting 
your  case,  I  can't  bear  to  leave  out  vital  details. 
Merely  professional  prejudice.  Shortly,  then,  you 
fully  sustained  your  share  in  a  long  and  arduous 
campaign ;  you  won  your  commission ;  you  were 
wounded,  decorated,  and  invalided  home." 

He  stopped  short  in  the  brilliant  sunshine 
which  now  flooded  their  path,  and  looked  gravely 
at  Peter. 

"Some  of  us,"  said  John,  "have  imagination 
enough  to  realize,  even  without  the  help  of 
war-correspondents,  the  scenes  of  horror  through 
which  you,  and  scores  of  other  boys,  fresh  from 
school,  like  you,  had  to  live  through.  We  can 


PETER'S  MOTHER  301 

picture  the  long  hours  on  the  veldt — on  the 
march — in  captivity — in  the  hospitals — in  the 
blockhouses — when  soldiers  have  been  sick  at 
heart,  wearied  to  death  with  physical  suffering, 
and  haunted  by  ghastly  memories  of  dead  com- 
rades." 

Peter  hurriedly  drew  his  left  hand  from  the 
pocket  where  the  beloved  tobacco-pouch  reposed, 
and  pulled  his  brown  felt  hat  down  over  his  eyes, 
as  though  the  October  sunlight  hurt  them. 

"I  think  at  such  times,  Peter,"  said  John, 
quietly  continuing  his  walk  by  the  boy's  side, 
"that  you  must  have  longed  now  and  then  for 
your  home;  for  this  peaceful  English  country, 
your  green  English  woods,  and  the  silent  hall 
where  your  mother  waited  for  you,  trembled  for 
you,  prayed  for  you.  I  think  your  heart  must 
have  ached  then,  as  so  many  men's  hearts  have 
ached,  to  remember  the  times  when  you  might 
have  made  her  happy  by  a  word,  or  a  look,  or  a 
smile.  And  you  didn't  do  it,  Peter — you  didn't 
do  itr 

Peter  made  a  restless  movement  indicative  of 
surprise  and  annoyance;  but  he  was  silent  still, 
and  John  changed  his  tone,  and  spoke  lightly  and 
cheerfully. 

"Well,  then  you  came  home;  and  your  joy  of 
life,  of  youth,  of  health  all  returned;  and  you 
looked  forward,  naturally,  to  taking  your  share  of 
the  pleasures  open  to  other  young  men  of  your 


302  PETER'S  MOTHER 

standing.  But  you  never  meant  to  forget  your 
mother,  as  so  many  careless  sons  forget  those  who 
have  watched  and  waited  for  them.  Even  though 
you  fell  in  love,  you  still  thought  of  her.  When 
you  were  weary  of  travel,  or  pleasure  connected 
with  the  outside  world,  you  meant  always  to 
return  to  her.  You  liked  to  think  she  would  still 
be  waiting  for  you ;  faithfully,  gratefully  waiting, 
within  the  sacred  precincts  of  your  childhood's 
home.  And  now,  when  you  remember  her  sub- 
mission to  your  father's  wishes  in  the  past,  and 
her  single-hearted  devotion  to  yourself,  you  are 
shocked  and  disappointed  to  find  that  she  can 
wish  to  descend  from  her  beautiful  and  guarded 
solitude  here,  and  mix  with  her  fellow-creatures 
in  the  work-a-day  world.  Why,"  said  John,  in 
a  tone  rather  of  dreaming  and  tenderness  than  of 
argument,  "that  would  be  to  tear  the  jewel  from 
its  setting — the  noble  central  figure  from  the 
calm  landscape,  lit  by  the  evening  sun." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Peter  smoked 
energetically. 

"Well,"  he  said  presently,  "of  course  I  can't 
follow  all  that  highfalutin'  style,  you  know " 

"Of  course  not,"  said  John,  "I  understand. 
You're  a  plain  Englishman." 

"Exactly,"  said  Peter,  relieved;  "lam.  But 
one  thing  I  will  say — you've  got  the  idea." 

"Thank  you,"  said  John. 

"  If  you  can  put  it  like  that  to  my  mother," 


PETER'S  MOTHER  303 

said  Peter,  still  busy  with  his  pipe,  but  speaking 
very  emphatically,  "why,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  I 
believe  it's  the  way  to  get  round  her.  I've  often 
noticed  how  useless  it  seems  to  talk  common- 
sense  to  her.  But  a  word  of  sentiment — and 
there  you  are.  Strange  to  say,  she  likes  nothing 
better  than — er — poetry.  I  hope  you  don't  mind 
my  calling  you  rather  poetical,"  said  Peter,  in  a 
tone  of  sincere  apology.  "  I  wish,  John,  you'd 
go  straight  to  my  mother,  and  put  the  whole  case 
before  her,  just  like  that." 

"The  whole  case!"  said  John.  "But,  my 
dear  fellow,  that's  only  half  the  case." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"The  other  half,"  said  John,  "is  the  case  from 
her  point  of  view." 

"I  don't  see,"  said  Peter,  "how  her  point  of 
view  can  be  different  from  mine." 

John's  thoughts  flew  back  to  a  February  eve- 
ning, more  than  two  years  earlier.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  Sir  Timothy  stood  before  him,  surprised, 
pompous,  argumentative.  But  he  saw  only  Peter, 
looking  at  him  with  his  father's  grey  eyes  set  in  a 
boy's  thin  face. 

"My  experience  as  a  barrister,"  he  said,  with 
a  curious  sense  of  repeating  himself,  "has  taught 
me  that  it  is  possible  for  two  persons  to  take  dia- 
metrically opposite  views  of  the  same  question." 

"And  what  happens  then?"  said  Peter,  stu- 
pidly. 


304  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  Our  bread  and  butter." 

"  But  why  should  my  mother  leave  the  place 
she's  lived  in  for  years  and  years,  and  go  gadding 
about  all  over  the  world — at  her  time  of  life?  I 
don't  see  what  can  be  said  for  the  wisdom  of 
that?" 

"  Nothing  from  your  point  of  view,  I  dare  say," 
said  John.  "  Much  from  hers.  If  you  are  willing 
to  listen,  and  if,"  he  added  smiling,  as  an  after- 
thought, "you  will  promise  not  to  interrupt?" 

"Well,"  said  Peter,  rather  doubtfully,  "all 
right,  I  promise.  You  won't  be  long,  I  suppose?" 

He  glanced  stealthily  down  towards  the  ferry, 
though  he  knew  that  Sarah  would  not  be  there 
for  a  couple  of  hours  at  least,  and  that  he  could 
reach  it  in  less  than  ten  minutes.  But  half  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  Sarah  consisted  in  waiting  for 
her  at  the  trysting-place. 

John  observed  the  glance,  and  smiled  imper- 
ceptibly. He  took  out  his  watch. 

"I  shall  speak,"  he  said,  carefully  examining 
it,  "for  four  minutes." 

"Let's  sit,"  said  Peter.  "It's  warm  enough 
now,  in  all  conscience." 

They  sat  upon  an  old  stone  bench  below  the 
turret.  Peter  leant  back  with  his  black  head 
resting  against  the  wall,  his  felt  hat  tipped  over 
his  eyes  and  his  pipe  in  his  mouth.  He  looked 
comfortable,  even  good-humoured. 

"Go  ahead,"  he  murmured. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  305 

"To  understand  the  case  from  your  mother's 
point  of  view,  I  am  afraid  it  is  necessary,"  said 
John,  "  to  take  a  rapid  glance  at  the  circumstances 
of  her  life  which  have — which  have  made  her 
what  she  is.  She  came  here,  as  a  child,  didn't 
she,  when  her  father  died;  and  though  he  had 
just  succeeded  to  the  earldom,  he  died  a  very  poor 
man?  Your  father,  as  her  guardian,  spared  no 
pains,  nor  expense  for  that  matter,  in  educating 
and  maintaining  her.  When  she  was  barely 
seventeen  years  old,  he  married  her." 

There  was  a  slight  dry  ness  in  John's  voice  as 
he  made  the  statement,  which  accounted  for  the 
gruff  ness  of  Peter's  acquiescence. 

"  Of  course — she  was  quite  willing,"  said  John, 
understanding  the  offence  implied  by  Peter's 
growl.  "  But  as  we  are  looking  at  things  exclu- 
sively from  her  point  of  view  just  now,  we  must 
not  forget  that  she  had  seen  nothing  of  the  world, 
nothing  of  other  men.  She  had  also  " — he  caught 
his  breath — "a  bright,  gay,  pleasure-loving  dis- 
position; but  she  moulded  herself  to  seriousness 
to  please  her  husband,  to  whom  she  owed  every- 
thing. When  other  girls  of  her  age  were  playing 
at  love — thinking  of  dances,  and  games  and  out- 
ings-— she  was  absorbed  in  motherhood  and  house- 
hold cares.  A  perfect  wife,  a  perfect  mother,  as 
poor  human  nature  counts  perfection." 

Lady  Mary  would  have  cried  out  in  vehement 
contradiction  and  self-reproach,  had  she  heard 


306  PETER'S  MOTHER 

these  words;  but  Peter  again  growled  reluctant 
acquiescence,  when  John  paused. 

"In  one  day,"  said  John,  slowly,  "she  was 
robbed  of  husband  and  child.  Her  husband  by 
death;  her  boy,  her  only  son,  by  his  own  will. 
He  deserted  her  without  even  bidding,  or  intend- 
ing to  bid  her,  farewell.  Hush — remember,  this 
is  from  her  point  of  view." 

Peter  had  started  to  his  feet  with  an  angry  ex- 
clamation; but  he  sat  down  again,  and  bent  his 
sullen  gaze  on  the  garden  path  as  John  continued. 
His  brown  face  was  flushed ;  but  John's  low,  deep 
tones,  now  tender,  now  scornful,  presently  en- 
chained and  even  fascinated  his  attention.  He 
listened  intently,  though  angrily. 

"Her  grief  was  passionate,  but — her  life  was 
not  over,"  said  John.  "  She,  who  had  been  guided 
from  childhood  by  the  wishes  of  others,  now  found 
that,  without  neglecting  any  duty,  she  could  con- 
sult her  own  inclinations,  indulge  her  own  tastes, 
choose  her  own  friends,  enjoy  with  all  the  fervour 
of  an  unspoilt  nature  the  world  which  opened 
freshly  before  her:  a  world  of  art,  of  music,  of 
literature,  of  a  thousand  interests  which  mean  so 
much  to  some  of  us,  so  little  to  others.  To  her 
returns  this  formerly  undutiful  son,  and  finds — a 
passionately  devoted  mother,  indeed,  but  also  a 
woman  in  the  full  pride  of  her  beauty  and  ma- 
turity. And  this  boy  would  condemn  her — the 
most  delightful,  the  most  attractive,  the  most  un- 


PETER'S  MOTHER  307 

selfish  companion  ever  desired  by  a  man — to  sit 
in  the  chimney-corner  like  an  old  crone  with  a 
distaff,  throughout  all  the  years  that  fate  may  yet 
hold  in  store  for  her — with  no  greater  interest  in 
life  than  to  watch  the  fading  of  her  own  sweet  face 
in  the  glass,  and  to  await  the  intervals  during 
which  he  would  be  graciously  pleased  to  afford 
her  the  consolation  of  his  presence." 

"Have  you  done?"  said  Peter,  furiously. 

"I  could  say  a  good  deal  more,"  said  John, 
growing  suddenly  cool.  "But" — he  showed  his 
watch — "my  time  is  up." 

"What — what  do  you  mean  by  all  this?"  said 
the  boy,  stammering  with  passion.  "  What  is  my 
mother  to  you?" 

The  time  had  come. 

John's  bright  hazel  eyes  had  grown  stern ;  his 
middle-aged  face,  flushed  with  the  emotion  his  own 
words  had  aroused,  yet  controlled  and  calm  in 
every  line  of  handsome  feature  and  steady  brow, 
confronted  Peter's  angry,  bewildered  gaze. 

"  She  is  the  woman  I  love,"  said  John.  "  The 
woman  I  mean  to  make  my  wife." 

He  remained  seated,  silently  waiting  for  Peter 
to  imbibe  and  assimilate  his  words. 

After  a  quick  gasp  of  incredulous  indignation, 
Peter,  too,  sat  silent  at  his  side. 

John  gave  him  time  to  recover  before  he  spoke 
again. 

"  I  hope,"  he  said,  very  gently,  "  that  when  you 


308  PETER'S  MOTHER 

have  thought  it  over,  you  won't  mind  it  so  much. 
As  it's  going  to  be — it  would  be  pleasanter  if  you 
and  I  could  be  friends.  I  think,  later  on,  you  may 
even  perceive  advantages  in  the  arrangement — 
under  the  circumstances;  when  you  have  re- 
covered from  your  natural  regret  in  realizing  that 
she  must  leave  Barracombe " 

"  It  isn't  that,"  said  Peter,  hoarsely.  He  felt 
he  must  speak;  and  he  also  desired,  it  must  be 
confessed,  to  speak  offensively,  and  relieve  him- 
self somewhat  of  the  accumulated  rage  and  re- 
sentment that  was  burning  in  his  breast.  "  It's 
— it's  simply" — he  said,  flushing  darkly,  and 
turning  his  face  away  from  John's  calm  and 
friendly  gaze — "  that  to  me — to  me,  the  idea  is — 
ridiculous." 

"Ah!"  said  John.  He  rose  from  the  stone 
bench.  A  spark  of  anger  came  to  him,  too,  as  he 
looked  at  Peter,  but  he  controlled  his  voice  and 
his  temper.  "The  time  will  come,"  he  said, 
"when  your  imagination  will  be  able  to  grasp  the 
possibility  of  love  between  a  man  in  the  forties 
and  a  woman  in  the  thirties.  At  least,  for  your 
sake,  I  hope  it  will." 

"Why  for  my  sake?"  said  Peter. 

"Because  I  should  be  sorry,"  said  John,  "if 
you  died  young." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

NEARLY  a  thousand  feet  above  the  fertile  valley  of 
the  Youle,  stretched  a  waste  of  moorland.  Here 
all  the  trees  were  gnarled  and  dwarfed  above  the 
patches  of  rust-coloured  bracken;  save  only  the 
delicate  silver  birch,  which  swayed  and  yielded  to 
the  wind. 

Great  boulders  were  scattered  among  the  thorn 
bushes,  and  over  their  rough  and  glistening  breasts 
were  flung  velvet  coverings  of  green  moss  and  grey 
lichen. 

On  this  October  day,  the  heather  yet  sturdily 
bore  a  few  last  rosy  blossoms,  and  the  ripe 
blackberries  shone  like  black  diamonds  on  the 
straggling  brambles.  Here  and  there  a  belated 
furze-bush  erected  its  golden  crown. 

Over  the  dim  purple  of  the  distant  hills,  a 
brighter  purple  line  proclaimed  the  sea.  Closer 
at  hand,  on  a  ridge  exposed  to  every  wind  of 
heaven,  sighed  a  little  wood  of  stunted  larch 
and  dull  blue  pine,  against  a  clear  and  brilliant 
sky. 

Sarah  was  enthroned  on  a  mossy  stone,  be- 
neath the  yellowing  foliage  of  a  sheltering  beech. 

809 


310  PETER'S  MOTHER 

Her  glorious  ruddy  hair  was  uncovered,  and  a 
Tyrolese  hat  was  hung  on  a  neighbouring  bramble, 
beside  a  little  tweed  coat.  She  wore  a  loose  white 
canvas  shirt,  and  short  tweed  skirt;  a  brown 
leather  belt,  and  brown  leather  boots. 

Being  less  indifferent  to  creature-comforts 
than  to  the  preservation  of  her  complexion,  Miss 
Sarah  was  paying  great  attention  to  the  contents 
of  a  market-basket  by  her  side.  She  had  chosen  a 
site  for  the  picnic  near  a  bubbling  brook,  and  had 
filled  her  glass  with  clear  sparkling  water  there- 
from, before  seating  herself  to  enjoy  her  cold 
chicken  and  bread  and  butter,  and  a  slice  of  game- 
pie. 

Peter  was  very  far  from  feeling  any  inclination 
towards  displaying  the  hilarity  which  an  outdoor 
meal  is  supposed  to  provoke.  He  was  obliged  to 
collect  sticks,  and  put  a  senseless  round-bottomed 
kettle  on  a  damp  reluctant  fire;  to  himself  he 
used  much  stronger  adjectives  in  describing  both; 
he  relieved  his  feelings  slightly  by  saying  that  he 
never  ate  lunch,  and  by  gloomily  eying  the  game- 
pie  instead  of  aiding  Sarah  to  demolish  it. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  a  picnic  without  a  kettle  and  a 
fire ;  and  we  must  have  hot  water  to  wash  up  with. 
I  brought  a  dish-cloth  on  purpose,"  said  Sarah. 
"  I  can't  think  why  you  don't  enjoy  yourself.  You 
used  to  be  fond  of  eating  and  drinking — anywhere 
— and  most  of  all  on  the  moor — in  the  good  old 
days  that  are  gone." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  311 

"  I  am  not  a  philosopher  like  you,"  said  Peter, 
angrily. 

"  I  am  anything  but  that,"  said  Sarah,with  pro- 
voking cheerfulness.  "  A  philosopher  is  a  thought- 
ful middle-aged  person  who  puts  off  enjoying  life 
until  it's  too  late  to  begin." 

"I  hate  middle-aged  people,"  said  Peter. 

"  I  am  not  very  fond  of  them  myself,  as  a  rule," 
said  Sarah,  indulgently.  "They  aren't  nice  and 
amusing  to  talk  to,  like  you  and  me;  or  rather" 
(with  a  glance  at  her  companion's  face),  "like  me; 
and  they  aren't  picturesque  and  fond  of  spoiling 
us,  as  really  old  people  are.  They  are  just  busy 
trying  to  get  all  they  can  out  of  the  world,  that's 
all.  But  there  are  exceptions;  or,  of  course,  it 
wouldn't  be  a  rule.  Your  mother  is  an  exception. 
No  one,  young  or  old,  was  ever  more  picturesque  or 
— or  more  altogether  delicious.  It  was  I  who 
taught  her  that  new  way  of  doing  her  hair.  By- 
the-by,  how  do  you  like  it?" 

"  I  don't  like  it  at  all,"  growled  Peter. 

"Perhaps  you  preferred  the  old  way,"  said 
Sarah,  turning  up  her  short  nose  rather  scornfully. 
"  Parted,  indeed,  and  brushed  down  flat  over  her 
ears,  exactly  like  that  horrid  old  Mrs.  Ash!" 

"Mrs.  Ash  has  lived  with  us  for  thirty  years," 
said  Peter,  in  a  tone  implying  that  he  desired  no 
liberties  to  be  taken  with  the  names  of  his  faithful 
retainers. 

"That  doesn't  make  her  any  better  looking, 


312  PETER'S  MOTHER 

however,"  retorted  Sarah.  "In  fact,  she  might 
have  had  more  chance  of  learning  how  to  do  her 
hair  properly  anywhere  else,  now  I  come  to  think 
of  it." 

"Of  course  everything  at  Barracombe  is  ugly 
and  old-fashioned,"  said  Peter,  gloomily. 

"Except  your  mother,"  said  Sarah. 

"Sarah!  I  can't  stand  any  more  of  this  rot!" 
said  Peter,  starting  from  his  couch  of  heather. 
"Will  you  talk  sense,  or  let  me?" 

Sarah  shot  a  keen  glance  of  inquiry  at  his 
moody  face. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  in  resigned  tones,  "  I  did  hope 
to  finish  my  lunch  in  peace.  I  saw  there  was 
something  the  matter  when  you  came  striding  up 
the  hill  without  a  word,  but  I  thought  it  was  only 
that  you  found  the  basket  too  heavy.  Of  course, 
if  I  had  known  it  was  only  to  be  lunch  for  one,  I 
would  not  have  put  in  so  many  things ;  and  cer- 
tainly not  a  whole  bottle  of  papa's  best  claret. 
In  fact,  if  I  had  known  I  was  to  picnic  practically 
alone,  I  would  not  have  crossed  the  river  at  all." 

Then  she  saw  that  Peter  was  in  earnest,  and 
with  a  sigh  of  regret,  Sarah  returned  the  dish  of 
jam-puffs  to  the  basket. 

"  I  couldn't  talk  sense,  or  even  listen  to  it,  with 
those  heavenly  puffs  under  my  very  nose,"  she 
said.  "  Now,  what  is  it? " 

"  I  hate  telling  you — I  hate  talking  of  it,"  said 
Peter,  and  a  dark  flush  rose  to  his  frowning  eye- 


PETER'S  MOTHER  313 

brows.  He  threw  himself  once  more  at  Sarah's 
feet,  and  turned  his  face  away  from  her,  and  to- 
wards the  blue  streak  of  distant  sea.  "John 
Crewys  wants  to  marry — my  mother,"  he  said  in 
choking  tones. 

' '  Is  that  all  ? "  said  Sarah.  "  I ' ve  seen  that  for 
ages.  Aren't  you  glad?" 

"Glad!  "said  Peter. 

"  I  thought,"  Sarah  said  innocently,  "that  you 
wanted  to  marry  me?" 

"Sarah!" 

' '  Well ! ' '  said  Sarah.  She  looked  rather  oddly 
at  Peter's  recumbent  figure.  Then  she  pushed 
the  loosened  waves  of  her  red  hair  from  her 
forehead  with  a  determined  gesture.  "  Well,"  she 
said  defiantly,  "isn't  that  one  obstacle  to  our 
marriage  removed?  Your  aunts  will  go  to  the 
Dower  House,  and  your  mother  will  leave  Barra- 
combe,  and  you'll  have  the  place  all  to  yourself. 
And  you  dare  to  tell  me  you're  sorry?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  sitting  up  and  facing  her, 
"  I  dare." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Sarah.  Her  deep 
voice  softened.  "  I  should  have  thought  less  of 
you  if  you  hadn't  dared." 

Suddenly  she  rose  from  her  mossy  throne, 
shook  the  crumbs  off  her  skirt,  and  looked  down 
upon  Peter  with  blue  eyes  sparkling  beneath  her 
long  lashes,  and  the  fresh  red  colour  deepening 
and  spreading  in  her  cheeks,  until  even  the  tips 


314  PETER'S  MOTHER 

of  her  delicate  ears  and  her  creamy  throat  turned 
pink. 

"Well,"  said  Sarah,  "go  and  stop  it.  Make 
your  mother  sorry  and  ashamed.  It  would  be 
very  easy.  Tell  her  she's  too  old  to  be  happy. 
But  say  good-bye  to  me  first." 

"Sarah!" 

"Why  is  it  to  be  all  sunshine  for  you,  and  all 
shade  for  her?"  said  Sarah.  "Hasn't  she  wept 
enough  to  please  you?  Mayn't  she  have  her  St. 
Martin's  summer?  God  gives  it  to  her.  Will  you 
take  it  away?" 

"Sarah!" 

He  looked  up  at  her  crimsoned  tearful  face  in 
dismay.  Was  this  Sarah  the  infantile — the  pink- 
and- white — the  seductive,  laughing,  impudent 
Sarah?  And  yet  how  passionately  Peter  ad- 
mired her  in  this  mood  of  virago,  which  he  had 
never  seen  since  the  days  of  her  childish  rages  of 
long  ago. 

"Why  do  you  suppose,"  said  Sarah,  disdain- 
fully, "that  I've  been  letting  you  follow  me  about 
all  this  summer,  and  desert  her;  except  to  show 
her  how  little  you  are  to  be  depended  upon?  To 
bring  home  to  her  how  foolish  she'd  be  to  fling 
away  her  happiness  for  your  sake.  You,  who  at 
one  word  from  me,  were  willing  to  turn  her  out  of 
her  own  home,  to  live  in  a  wretched  little  villa  at 
your  very  door.  Don't  interrupt  me,"  said  Sarah, 
stamping,  "and  say  you  weren't  willing.  You 


PETER'S  MOTHER  315 

told  her  so.  I  meant  you  to  tell  her,  and  yet — I 
could  have  killed  you,  Peter,  when  I  heard  her 
sweet  voice  faltering  out  to  me,  that  she  would  be 
ready  and  glad  to  give  up  her  place  to  her  boy's 
wife,  whenever  the  time  should  come." 

"She  told  you?"  cried  Peter. 

"But  she  didn't  say  you'd  asked  her,"  cried 
Sarah,  scornfully.  "7  knew  it,  but  she  never 
guessed  I  did.  She  was  only  gently  smoothing 
away,  as  she  hoped,  the  difficulties  that  lay  in  the 
path  to  your  happiness.  Oh,  that  she  could  have 
believed  it  of  me!  But  she  thinks  only  of  your 
happiness.  You,  who  would  snatch  away  hers 
this  minute  if  you  could.  She  never  dreamt  I 
knew  you'd  said  a  word." 

She  paused  in  her  impassioned  speech,  and  the 
tears  dropped  from  the  dark  blue  eyes.  Sarah  was 
crying,  and  Peter  was  speechless  with  awe  and 
dismay. 

"I  think  she  would  have  died,  Peter,"  said 
Sarah,  solemnly,  "before  she  would  have  told  me 
how  brutal  you'd  been,  and  how  stupid,  and  how 
selfish.  I  meant  you  to  show  her  all  that.  I 
thought  it  would  open  her  eyes.  I  was  such  a 
fool!  As  if  anything  could  open  the  eyes  of  a 
mother  to  the  faults  of  her  only  son." 

Peter  looked  at  her  with  such  despair  and  grief 
in  his  dark  face  that  her  heart  almost  softened 
towards  him;  but  she  hardened  it  again  immedi- 
ately. 


316  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you — you've  been  playing 
with  me  all  this  time,  Sarah?  They — everybody 
told  me — that  you  were  only  playing — but  I've 
never  believed  it." 

"  I  meant  to  play  with  you,"  said  Sarah,  turn- 
ing, if  possible,  even  redder  than  before ;  "I  meant 
to  teach  you  a  lesson,  and  throw  you  over.  And 
the  more  I  saw  of  you,  the  more  I  didn't  repent. 
You,  who  dared  to  think  yourself  superior  to  your 
mother;  and,  indeed,  to  any  woman!  Kings  are 
enslaved  by  women,  you  know,"  said  Miss  Sarah, 
tossing  her  head,  "  and  statesmen  are  led  by  them, 
though  they  oughtn't  to  be.  And — and  poets 
worship  them,  or  how  could  they  write  poetry? 
There  would  be  nothing  to  write  about.  It  is 
reserved  for  boys  and  savages  to  look  down  upon 
them." 

She  sat  scornfully  down  again  on  her  boulder, 
and  put  her  hands  to  her  loosened  hair. 

"  I  can't  think  why  a  scene  always  makes 
one's  hair  untidy,"  said  Sarah,  suddenly  bursting 
into  a  laugh;  but  the  whiteness  of  Peter's  face 
frightened  her,  and  she  had  some  ado  to  laugh 
naturally.  "And  I  am  lost  without  a  looking- 
glass,"  she  added,  in  a  somewhat  quavering  tone 
of  bravado. 

She  pulled  out  a  great  tortoise-shell  dagger,  and 
a  heavy  mass  of  glorious  red-gold  hair  fell  about 
her  piquant  face,  and  her  pretty  milk-white 
throat,  down  to  her  waist. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  317 

"Dear  me!"  said  Miss  Sarah.  She  looked 
around.  Near  the  bubbling  brook,  dark  peaty 
hollows  held  little  pools,  which  offered  Nature's 
mirror  for  her  toilet. 

She  went  to  the  side  of  the  stream  and  knelt 
down.  Her  plump  white  hands  dexterously 
twisted  and  secured  the  long  burnished  coil.  Then 
she  glanced  slyly  round  at  Peter. 

He  lay  face  downwards  on  the  grass.  His 
shoulders  heaved.  The  pretty  picture  Miss  Sa- 
rah's coquetry  presented  had  been  lost  upon  the 
foolish  youth. 

She  returned  in  a  leisurely  manner  to  her  place, 
and  leaning  her  chin  on  her  hand,  and  her  elbow  on 
her  knee,  regarded  him  thoughtfully. 

"Where  was  I?  Yes,  I  remember.  It  is  a 
lesson  for  a  girl,  Peter,  never  to  marry  a  boy  or  a 
savage." 

"Sarah!"  said  Peter.  He  raised  his  face  and 
looked  at  her.  His  eyes  were  red,  but  he  was  too 
miserable  to  care;  he  was,  as  she  had  said,  only  a 
boy.  "Sarah,  you're  not  in  earnest!  You  can't 
be !  I — I  know  I  ought  to  be  angry. ' '  Miss  Sarah 
laughed  derisively.  "Yes,  you  laugh,  for  you 
know  too  well  I  can't  be  angry  with  you.  I  love 
you! "  said  Peter,  passionately,  "  though  you  are — 
as  cruel  as  though  I've  not  had  pretty  well  as  much 
to  bear  to-day,  as  I  know  how  to  stand.  First, 
John  Crewys,  and  now  you — saying " 

"Just  the  truth,"  said  Sarah,  calmly, 


318  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"I  don't  deny,"  said  Peter,  in  a  quivering 
voice,  "  that — that  some  of  the  beastly  things  he 
said  came — came  home  to  me.  I've  been  a  selfish 
brute  to  her,  I  always  have  been.  You've  said  so 
pretty  plainly,  and  I — I  dare  say  it's  true.  I 
think  it's  true.  But  to  you — and  I  was  so  happy." 
He  hid  his  face  in  his  hand. 

"I'm  glad  you  have  the  grace  to  see  the  error  of 
your  ways  at  last, ' '  said  Sarah,  encouragingly.  "  It 
makes  me  quite  hopeful  about  you.  But  I'm 
sorry  to  see  you're  still  only  thinking  of  our  happi- 
ness— I  mean  yours,"  she  corrected  herself  in  haste, 
for  a  sudden  eager  hope  flashed  across  Peter's  mis- 
erable young  face.  "Yours,  yours,  yours.  It's 
your  happiness  and  not  hers  you  think  of  still, 
though  you've  all  your  life  before  you,  and  she  has 
only  half  hers.  But  no  one  has  ever  thought  of 
her — except  me,  and  one  other." 

"John  Crewys? "  said  Peter,  angrily. 

"Not  John  Crewys  at  all."  snapped  Sarah. 
"  He  is  just  thinking  of  his  own  happiness  like  you 
are.  All  men  are  alike,  except  the  one  I'm  think- 
ing of.  But  though  I  make  no  doubt  that  John 
Crewys  is  just  as  selfish  as  you  are,  which  is  saying 
a  good  deal,  yet,  as  it  happens,  John  Crewys  is  the 
only  man  who  could  make  her  happy." 

"What  man  are  you  thinking  of?"  said  Peter. 

Jealousy  was  a  potent  factor  in  his  love  for 
Sarah.  He  forgot  his  mother  instantly,  as  he 
had  forgotten  her  on  the  day  of  his  return,  when 


PETER'S  MOTHER  319 

Sarah  had  walked  on  to  the  terrace — and  into  his 
heart. 

"I  name  no  names,"  said  Sarah,  "but  I  hope 
I  know  a  hero  when  I  see  him;  and  that  man 
is  a  hero,  though  he  is — nothing  much  to  look 
at." 

It  amused  her  to  observe  the  varying  expres- 
sions on  her  lover's  face,  which  her  artless  words 
called  forth,  one  after  another. 

"  If  you  are  really  not  going  to  eat  any  lunch- 
eon, Peter,"  she  said,  "I  must  trouble  you  to 
help  me  to  wash  up  and  pack  the  basket.  The 
fire  is  out  and  the  water  is  cold,  but  it  can't  be 
helped.  The  picnic  has  been  a  failure." 

"We  have  the  whole  afternoon  before  us.  I 
cannot  see  that  there  is  any  hurry,"  said  Peter, 
not  stirring. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  break  bad  news  to  you," 
said  Sarah,  "until  we'd  had  a  pleasant  meal 
together  in  comfort,  and  rested  ourselves.  But 
since  you  insist  on  spoiling  everything  with  your 
horrid  premature  disclosures,  I  don't  see  why  I 
shouldn't  do  the  same.  I  must  be  at  home  by 
four  o'clock,  because  Aunt  Elizabeth  is  coming  to 
Hewelscourt  this  very  afternoon." 

"Lady  Tintern!"  cried  Peter,  in  dismay. 
"Then  you  won't  be  able  to  come  to  Barracombe 
this  evening?" 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  throwing  over  a  din- 
ner engagement, "  said  Sarah,  with  dignity.  "  But 


320  PETER'S  MOTHER 

in  case  they  won't  let  me  come,"  she  added,  with 
great  inconsistency,  "I'll  put  a  lighted  candle  in 
the  top  window  of  the  tower,  as  usual.  But  you 
can  guess  how  many  more  of  these  enjoyable  ex- 
peditions we  shall  be  allowed  to  make.  Not  that 
we  need  regret  them  if  they  are  all  to  be  as  lively 
as  this  one.  Still- 
She  helped  herself  to  a  jam-puff,  and  offered 
the  dish  to  Peter,  with  an  engaging  smile.  He 
helped  himself  absently. 

"  I  don't  deny  I  am  fond  of  taking  meals  in  the 
open  air,  and  more  especially  on  the  top  of  the 
moor,"  said  Sarah,  with  a  sigh  of  content. 

"What  has  she  come  for?"  said  Peter. 

"  I  shall  be  better  able  to  tell  you  when  I  have 
seen  her." 

"Don't  you  know?" 

"  I  can  pretty  well  guess.  She's  going  to  for- 
give me,  for  one  thing.  Then  she'll  tell  me  that 
I  don't  deserve  my  good  luck,  but  that  Lord  Avon- 
wick  is  so  patient  and  so  long-suffering,  that  he's 
accepted  her  assurance  that  I  don't  know  my  own 
mind  (and  I'm  not  sure  I  do),  and  he's  going  to 
give  me  one  more  chance  to  become  Lady  Avon- 
wick,  though  I  was  so  foolish  as  to  say  '  No '  to  his 
last  offer." 

"You  didn't  say  'No'  to  my  last  offer!"  cried 
Peter. 

"  I  don't  believe  an  offer  of  marriage  is  even 
legal  before  you're  one-and- twenty,"  said  Miss 


PETER'S  MOTHER  321 

Sarah,  derisively.     "What  did  it  matter  what  I 
said?     Haven't  I  told  you  I  was  only  playing?" 

"You  may  tell  me  so  a  thousand  times,"  said 
Peter,  doggedly,  "but  I  shall  never  believe  you 
until  I  see  you  actually  married  to  somebody 
else." 


CHAPTER  XX 

LADY  TINTERN  was  pleased  to  leave  Paddington 
by  a  much  earlier  train  than  could  have  been  ex- 
pected. She  hired  a  fly,  and  a  pair  of  broken- 
kneed  horses,  at  Brawnton,  and  once  more  took 
her  relations  at  Hewelscourt  by  surprise.  On 
this  occasion,  however,  she  was  not  fortunate 
enough  to  find  her  invalid  niece  at  play  in  the 
stable-yard,  though  she  detected  her  at  luncheon, 
and  warmly  congratulated  her  upon  her  robust 
appearance  and  her  excellent  appetite. 

Her  journey  had,  no  doubt,  been  undertaken 
with  the  very  intentions  Sarah  had  described ;  but 
another  motive  also  prompted  her,  which  Sarah 
had  not  divined. 

Much  as  she  desired  to  marry  her  grand-niece 
to  Lord  Avonwick,  she  was  not  blind  to  the  young 
man's  personal  disadvantages,  which  were  unde- 
niable; and  which  Peter  had  rudely  summed  up 
in  a  word  by  alluding  to  his  rival  as  an  ass.  He 
was  distinguished  among  the  admirers  of  Miss 
Sarah's  red  and  white  beauty  by  his  brainlessness 
no  less  than  by  his  eligibility. 

Nevertheless,  Lady  Tintern  had  favoured  his 


PETER'S  MOTHER  323 

suit.  She  knew  him  to  be  a  good  fellow,  although 
he  was  a  simpleton,  and  she  was  very  sure  that  he 
loved  Sarah  sincerely. 

"Whoever  the  girl  marries,  she  will  rule  him 
with  a  rod  of  iron.  She  had  better  marry  a  fool 
and  be  done  with  it.  So  why  not  an  eligible  and 
titled  and  good-natured  fool?"  the  old  lady  had 
written  to  Mrs.  Hewel,  who  was  very  far  from 
understanding  such  reasoning,  and  wept  resent- 
fully over  the  letter. 

Why  should  Lady  Tintern  snatch  her  only 
daughter  away  from  her  in  order  to  marry  her  to 
a  fool?  Mrs.  Hewel  was  of  opinion  that  a  sensible 
young  man  like  Peter  would  be  a  better  match. 
She  supposed  nobody  would  call  Sir  Peter  Crewys 
of  Barracombe  a  fool ;  and  as  for  his  being  young, 
he  was  only  a  few  months  younger  than  Lord 
Avonwick,  and  Sarah  would  have  just  as  pretty  a 
title,  even  if  her  husband  were  only  a  baronet  in- 
stead of  a  baron.  Thus  she  argued  to  herself,  and 
wrote  the  gist  of  her  argument  to  her  aunt.  Why 
was  Sarah  to  go  hunting  the  highways  and  by- 
ways for  titled  fools,  when  there  was  Peter  at  her 
very  door, — a  young  man  she  had  known  all  her 
life,  and  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  Devon,  and 
seven  thousand  acres  of  land  only  next  week, 
when  he  would  come  of  age,  and  could  marry 
whomever  he  liked?  Though,  of  course,  Sarah 
must  not  go  against  her  aunt,  who  had  promised 
to  do  so  much  for  her,  and  given  her  so  many 


324  PETER'S  MOTHER 

beautiful  things,  whether  young  girls  ought  to 
wear  jewellery  or  not. 

This  was  the  distracted  letter  which  was 
bringing  Lady  Tintern  to  Hewelscourt.  She  had 
been  annoyed  with  Sarah  for  refusing  Lord  Avon- 
wick,  and  thought  it  would  do  the  rebellious 
young  lady  no  harm  to  return  for  a  time  to  the 
bosom  of  her  family,  and  thus  miss  Newmarket, 
which  Sarah  particularly  desired  to  attend,  since 
no  society  function  interested  her  half  so  much  as 
racing. 

The  old  lady  had  not  in  the  least  objected  to 
Sarah's  friendship  for  young  Sir  Peter  Crewys. 
Sarah,  as  John  had  truly  said,  was  a  star  with 
many  satellites ;  and  among  those  satellites  Peter 
did  not  shine  with  any  remarkable  brilliancy, 
being  so  obviously  an  awkward  country -bred  lad, 
not  at  home  in  the  surroundings  to  which  her 
friendship  had  introduced  him,  and  rather  in- 
clined to  be  surly  and  quarrelsome  than  pleasant 
or  agreeable. 

Lady  Tintern  had  not  taken  such  a  boy's  atten- 
tions to  her  grand-niece  seriously;  but  if  Sarah 
were  taking  them  seriously,  she  thought  she  had 
better  inquire  into  the  matter  at  once.  Therefore 
the  energetic  old  woman  not  only  arrived  unex- 
pectedly at  Hewelscourt  in  the  middle  of  luncheon, 
but  routed  her  niece  off  her  sofa  early  in  the  after- 
noon, and  proposed  that  she  should  immediately 
cross  the  river  and  call  upon  Peter's  mother. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  325 

"I  have  never  seen  the  place  except  from 
these  windows;  perhaps  I  am  underrating  it," 
said  Lady  Tintern.  "I've  never  met  Lady  Mary 
Crewys,  though  I  know  all  the  Setouns  that  ever 
were  born.  Never  mind  who  ought  to  call  on  me 
first!  What  do  I  care  for  such  nonsense?  The 
boy  is  a  cub  and  a  bear — that  I  know — since  he 
stayed  in  my  house  for  a  fortnight,  and  never 
spoke  to  me  if  he  could  possibly  help  it.  He  is 
a  nobody!  Sir  Peter  Fiddlesticks!  Who  ever 
heard  of  him  or  his  family,  I  should  like  to  know, 
outside  this  ridiculous  place?  His  name  is  spelt 
wrong!  Of  course  I  have  heard  of  Crewys,  K.C. 
Everybody  has  heard  of  him.  That  has  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  Yes,  I  know  the  young  man  did 
well  in  South  Africa.  All  our  young  men  did  well 
in  South  Africa.  Pray,  is  Sarah  to  marry  them 
all?  If  that  is  what  she  is  after,  the  sooner  I  take 
it  in  hand  the  better.  Lunching  by  herself  on  the 
moors  indeed !  No ;  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of  the 
ferry,  Emily.  If  you  are,  I  will  go  alone,  or  take 
your  good  man." 

"  The  colonel  is  out  shooting,  as  you  know,  and 
won't  be  back  till  tea-time,"  said  Mrs.  Hewel,  be- 
coming more  and  more  flurried  under  this  torrent 
of  lively  scolding. 

"The  colonel!  Why  don't  you  say  Tom? 
Colonel  indeed ! "  said  Lady  Tintern.  "  Very  well, 
I  shall  go  alone." 

But  this  Mrs.  Hewel  would  by  no  means  allow. 


326  PETER'S  MOTHER 

She  reluctantly  abandoned  the  effort  to  dissuade 
her  aunt,  put  on  her  visiting  things  with  as  much 
speed  as  was  possible  to  her,  and  finally  accom- 
panied her  across  the  river  to  pay  the  proposed 
visit  to  Barracombe  House. 

Lady  Mary  received  her  visitors  in  the  ban- 
queting hall,  an  apartment  which  excited  Lady 
Tintern's  warmest  approval.  The  old  lady  dated 
the  oak  carving  in  the  hall,  and  in  the  yet  more 
ancient  library;  named  the  artists  of  the  various 
pictures;  criticized  the  ceilings,  and  praised  the 
windows. 

Mrs.  Hewel  feared  her  outspokenness  would 
offend  Lady  Mary,  but  she  could  perceive  only 
pleasure  and  amusement  in  the  face  of  her  hostess, 
between  whom  and  the  worldly  old  woman  there 
sprang  up  a  friendliness  that  was  almost  instan- 
taneous. 

"And  you  are  like  a  Cosway  miniature  your- 
self, my  dear,"  said  Lady  Tintern,  peering  out  of 
her  dark  eyes  at  Lady  Mary's  delicate  white  face. 
"  Eh — the  bright  colouring  must  be  a  little  faded — 
all  the  Setouns  have  pretty  complexions — and 
carmine  is  a  perishable  tint,  as  we  all  know.'- 

"Sarah  has  a  brilliant  complexion,"  struck  in 
Mrs.  Hewel,  zealously  endeavouring  to  distract 
her  aunt  from  the  personalities  in  which  she 
preferred  to  indulge. 

"Sarah  looks  like  a  milkmaid,  my  love,"  said 
the  old  lady,  who  did  not  choose  to  be  interrupted. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  327 

"  And  when  she  can  hunt  as  much  as  she  wishes, 
and  live  the  outdoor  life  she  prefers,  she  will  get 
the  complexion  of  a  boatwoman."  She  turned  to 
Lady  Mary  with  a  gracious  nod.  "  But  you  may 
live  out  of  doors  with  impunity.  Time  seems  to 
leave  something  better  than  colouring  to  a  few 
Heaven-blessed  women,  who  manage  to  escape 
wrinkles,  and  hardening,  and  crossness.  I  am 
often  cross,  and  so  are  younger  folk  than  I;  and 
your  boy  Peter — though  how  he  comes  to  be  your 
boy  I  don't  know — is  very  often  cross  too." 

"You  have  been  very  kind  to  Peter,"  said 
Lady  Mary,  laughing.  "  I  am  sorry  you  found 
him  cross." 

"No;  I  was  not  kind  to  him.  I  am  not  par- 
ticularly fond  of  cross  people,"  said  the  old  lady. 
"  It  is  Sarah  who  has  been  kind,"  and  she  looked 
sharply  again  at  Lady  Mary. 

"  I  am  getting  on  in  years,  and  very  infirm," 
said  Lady  Tintern,  "  and  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse 
me  if  I  lean  upon  a  stick ;  but  I  should  like  to  take 
a  turn  about  the  garden  with  you.  I  hear  you 
have  a  remarkable  view  from  your  terrace." 

Lady  Mary  offered  her  arm  with  pretty  solici- 
tude, and  guided  her  aged  but  perfectly  active 
visitor  through  the  drawing-room — where  she 
stopped  to  comment  favourably  upon  the  water 
colours — to  the  terrace,  where  John  was  sitting  in 
the  shade  of  the  ilex-tree,  absorbed  in  the  London 
papers. 


PETER'S  MOTHER 

Lady  Mary  introduced  him  as  Peter's  guardian 
and  cousin. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Crewys?  Your  name  is 
very  familiar  to  me,"  said  the  old  lady.  "  Though 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  Sir  Peter  looks  so  much  older 
than  his  age  that  I  forgot  he  had  a  guardian  at  all." 

"  He  will  only  have  one  for  a  few  days  longer," 
said  John,  smiling.  "My  authority  will  expire 
very  shortly." 

"But  you  are,  at  any  rate,  the  very  man  I 
wanted  to  see,"  said  Lady  Tintern,  who  seldom 
wasted  time  in  preliminaries.  "  I  would  always 
rather  talk  business  with  a  man  than  with  a 
woman ;  so  if  Mr.  Crewys  will  lend  me  his  arm  to 
supplement  my  stick,  I  will  take  a  turn  with  him 
instead  of  with  you,  my  dear,  if  you  have  no 
objection." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  anything  like  her?"  said 
poor  Mrs.  Hewel,  turning  to  Lady  Mary  as  soon  as 
her  aunt  was  out  of  hearing.  "  What  Mr.  Crewys 
must  think  of  her,  I  cannot  guess.  She  always 
says  she  had  to  exercise  so  much  reticence  as  an 
ambassadress,  that  she  has  given  her  tongue  a 
holiday  ever  since.  But  there  is  only  one  possible 
subject  they  can  have  to  talk  about.  And  how 
can  we  be  sure  her  interference  won't  spoil  every- 
thing? She  is  quite  capable  of  asking  what  Pe- 
ter's intentions  are.  She  is  the  most  indiscreet 
person  in  the  world,"  said  Sarah's  mother,  wring- 
ing her  hands. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  329 

"  I  think  Peter  has  made  his  intentions  pretty 
obvious,"  said  Lady  Mary.  She  smiled,  but  her 
eyes  were  anxious. 

"  And  you  are  sure  you  don't  mind,  dear  Lady 
Mary?  For  who  can  depend  on  Lady  Tin  tern, 
after  all?  She  is  supposed  to  be  going  to  do  so 
much  for  Sarah,  but  if  she  takes  it  into  her  head 
to  oppose  the  marriage,  I  can  do  nothing  with  her. 
I  never  could." 

"I  am  very  far  from  minding,"  said  Lady 
Mary.  "  But  it  is  Sarah  on  whom  everything  de- 
pends. What  does  she  say,  I  wonder?  What 
does  she  want?" 

"It's  no  use  asking  me  what  Sarah  wants," 
said  Mrs.  Hewel,  plaintively.  "Time  after  time 
I  have  told  her  father  what  would  come  of  it 
all  if  he  spoilt  her  so  outrageously.  He  is 
ready  enough  to  find  fault  with  the  boys,  poor 
fellows,  who  never  do  anything  wrong;  but  he 
always  thinks  Sarah  perfection,  and  nothing 
else." 

"Sarah  is  very  fortunate,  for  Peter  has  the 
same  opinion  of  her." 

"  Fortunate !  Lady  Mary,  if  I  were  to  tell  you 
the  chances  that  girl  has  had — not  but  what  I  had 
far  rather  she  married  Peter — though  she  might 
have  done  that  all  the  same  if  she  had  never  left 
home  in  her  life." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Peter's 
mother. 


330  PETER'S  MOTHER 

Lady  Tintern's  turn  took  her  no  further  than 
the  fountain  garden,  where  she  sank  down  upon 
a  bench,  and  graciously  requested  her  escort  to 
occupy  the  vacant  space  by  her  side. 

"  I  started  at  an  unearthly  hour  this  morning, 
and  I  am  not  so  young  as  I  was,"  she  said ;  "  but  I 
am  particularly  desirous  of  a  good  night's  rest, 
and  I  never  can  sleep  with  anything  on  my  mind. 
So  I  came  over  here  to  talk  business.  By-the-by, 
I  should  have  come  over  here  long  ago,  if  any  one 
had  had  the  sense  to  give  me  a  hint  that  I  had 
only  to  cross  a  muddy  stream,  in  a  flat-bottomed 
boat,  in  order  to  see  a  face  like  that —  She 

nodded  towards  the  terrace. 

John's  colour  rose  slightly.  He  put  the  nod 
and  the  smile,  and  the  sharp  glance  of  the  dark 
eyes  together,  and  perceived  that  Lady  Tintern 
had  drawn  certain  conclusions. 

"There  is  some  expression  in  her  face,"  said 
the  old  lady,  musingly,  "  which  makes  me  think  of 
Marie  Stuart's  farewell  to  France.  I  don't  know 
why.  I  have  odd  fancies.  I  believe  the  Queen  of 
Scots  had  hazel  eyes,  whereas  this  pretty  Lady 
Mary  has  the  bluest  eyes  I  ever  saw — quite  re- 
markable eyes." 

"Those  blue  eyes,"  said  John,  smiling,  "have 
never  looked  beyond  this  range  of  hills  since  Lady 
Mary's  childhood." 

The  old  lady  nodded  again.  "Eh — a  State 
prisoner.  Yes,  yes.  She  has  that  kind  of  look." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  331 

Then  she  turned  to  John,  with  mingled  slyness 
and  humour,  "On  va  changer  tout  cela?" 

"  As  you  have  divined,"  he  answered,  laughing 
in  spite  of  himself.  "Though  how  you  have 
divined  it  passes  my  poor  powers  of  comprehen- 
sion." 

Lady  Tin  tern  was  pleased.  She  liked  tributes 
to  her  intelligence  as  other  women  enjoy  recog- 
nition of  their  good  looks. 

"It  is  very  easy,  to  an  observer,"  she  said. 
"  She  is  frightened  at  her  own  happiness.  Yes, 
yes.  And  that  cub  of  a  boy  would  not  make  it 
easier.  By-the-by,  I  came  to  talk  of  the  boy. 
You  are  his  guardian?" 

"Fora  week." 

"What  does  it  signify  for  how  long?  Five 
minutes  will  settle  my  views.  Thank  Heaven  I 
did  not  come  later,  or  I  should  have  had  to  talk 
to  him,  instead  of  to  a  man  of  sense.  You  must 
have  seen  what  is  going  on.  What  do  you  think 
of  it?" 

"The  arrangement  suits  me  so  admirably," 
said  John,  smiling,  "  that  I  am  hardly  to  be  relied 
upon  for  an  impartial  opinion." 

"Will  you  tell  me  his  circumstances?" 

John  explained  them  in  a  few  words,  and  with 
admirable  terseness  and  lucidity ;  and  she  nodded 
comprehensively  all  the  while. 

"That's  capital.  He  can't  make  ducks  and 
drakes  of  it.  All  tied  up  on  the  children.  I  hope 


332  PETER'S  MOTHER 

they  will  have  a  dozen.  It  would  serve  Sarah 
right.  Now  for  my  side.  Whatever  sum  the 
trustees  decide  to  settle  upon  Sir  Peter's  wife,  I 
will  put  down  double  that  sum  as  Sarah's  dowry. 
Our  solicitors  can  fight  the  rest  out  between  them. 
The  property  is  much  better  than  I  had  been  given 
any  reason  to  suspect.  I  have  no  more  to  say. 
They  can  be  married  in  a  month.  That  is  settled. 
I  never  linger  over  business.  We  may  shake 
hands  on  it."  They  did  so  with  great  cordiality. 
"  It  is  not  that  I  am  overjoyed  at  the  match,"  she 
explained,  with  great  frankness.  "  I  think  Sarah 
is  a  fool  to  marry  a  boy.  But  I  have  observed  she 
is  a  fool  who  always  knows  her  own  mind.  The 
fancies  of  some  girls  of  that  age  are  not  worth  at- 
tending to." 

"  Miss  Sarah  is  a  young  lady  of  character,"  said 
John,  gravely. 

"Ay,  she  will  settle  him,"  said  Lady  Tintern. 
Her  small,  grim  face  relaxed  into  a  witchlike 
smile. 

"  The  lad  is  a  good  lad.  No  one  has  ever  said 
a  word  against  him,  and  he  is  as  steady  as  old 
Time.  I  believe  Miss  Sarah's  choice,  if  he  is  her 
choice,  will  be  justified,"  said  John. 

"  I  didn't  think  he  was  a  murderer  or  a  drunk- 
ard," said  Lady  Tintern,  cheerfully.  Her  phrase- 
ology was  often  startling  to  strangers.  "  But  he 
is  absolutely  devoid  of — what  shall  I  say?  Chiv- 
alry? Yes,  that  is  it.  Few  young  men  have 


PETER'S  MOTHER  333 

much  nowadays,  I  am  told.  But  Sir  Peter  has 
none — absolutely  none . ' ' 

"It  will  come." 

"  No,  it  will  not  come.  It  is  a  quality  you  are 
born  with  or  without.  He  was  born  without. 
Sarah  knows  all  about  it.  It  won't  hurt  her ;  she 
has  the  methods  of  an  ox.  She  goes  direct  to  her 
point,  and  tramples  over  everything  that  stands 
in  her  way.  If  he  were  less  thick-skinned  she 
would  be  the  death  of  him;  but  fortunately  he 
has  the  hide  of  a  rhinoceros." 

"  I  think  you  do  them  both  a  great  deal  less 
than  justice,"  said  John;  but  he  was  unable  to 
help  laughing. 

"  Oh,  you  do,  do  you?  I  like  to  be  disagreed 
with."  Her  voice  shook  a  little.  "You  must 
make  allowances — for  an  old  woman — who  is — 
disappointed,"  said  Lady  Tintern. 

John  said  nothing,  but  his  bright  hazel  eyes, 
looking  down  on  the  small,  bent  figure,  grew  sud- 
denly gentle  and  sympathetic. 

"It  is  a  pleasure  to  be  able  to  congratulate 
somebody,"  she  said,  returning  his  look.  "  I  con- 
gratulate you — and  Lady  Mary." 

"Thank  you." 

"  Most  of  all,  because  there  is  nothing  modern 
about  her.  She  has  walked  straight  out  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  with  the  face  of  a  saint  and  a 
dreamer  and  a  beautiful  woman,  all  in  one.  I 
am  an  old  witch,  and  I  am  never  deceived  in  a 


334  PETER'S  MOTHER 

woman.  Men,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  no  longer  take 
the  trouble  to  deceive  me.  Now  our  business  is 
over,  will  you  take  me  back?" 

She  took  the  arm  he  offered,  and  tottered  back 
to  the  terrace. 

"  Bring  her  to  see  me  in  London,  and  bring 
her  as  soon  as  you  can,"  said  Lady  Tintern.  "  She 
is  the  friend  I  have  dreamed  of,  and  never  met. 
When  is  it  going  to  be? " 

"At  once,"  said  John,  calmly. 

"You  are  the  most  sensible  man  I  have  seen 
for  a  long  time,"  said  Lady  Tintern. 

Peter  and  Sarah  hardly  exchanged  a  word 
during  their  return  journey  from  the  moors  after 
the  unlucky  picnic;  and  at  the  door  of  Happy 
Jack's  cottage  in  Youlestone  village  she  com- 
manded her  obedient  swain  to  deposit  the  lunch- 
eon basket,  and  bade  him  farewell. 

The  aged  road-mender,  to  his  intense  surprise 
and  chagrin,  had  one  morning  found  himself  un- 
able to  rise  from  his  bed.  He  lay  there  for  a  week, 
indignant  with  Providence  for  thus  wasting  his 
time. 

"There  bain't  nart  the  matter  wi'  I!  Then 
why  be  I  a-f arced  to  lie  thic  way  ?  "  he  said  faintly. 
"  If  zo  be  I  wor  bod,  I  cude  understand,  but  I 
bain't  bod.  There  bain't  no  pain  tu  speak  on  no- 
wheres.  It  vair  beats  my  yunderstanding. " 

"  'Tis  old  age  be  the  matter  wi'  yu,  vather," 


PETER'S  MOTHER  335 

said  his  mate,  a  young  fellow  of  sixty  or  so,  who 
lodged  with  him. 

"I  bain't  nigh  so  yold  as  zum,"  said  Happy 
Jack,  peevishly.  "  Tis  a  nice  way  vor  a  man  tu 
be  tuke,  wi'out  a  thing  the  matter  wi'  un,  vor  the 
doctor  tu  lay  yold  on." 

Dr.  Blundell  soothed  him  by  giving  his  illness 
a  name. 

"  It's  Anno  Domini,  Jack." 

"  What  be  that  ?  I  niver  yeard  till  on  't  befar, ' ' 
he  said  suspiciously. 

"  It's  incurable,  Jack,"  said  the  doctor,  gravely. 

Happy  Jack  was  consoled.  He  rolled  out  the 
word  with  relish  to  his  next  visitor. 

"  Him's  vound  it  out  at  last.  'Tis  the  anny- 
dominy,  and  'tis  incurable.  You'm  can't  du  nart 
vor  I.  I  got  tu  go ;  and  'taint  no  wonder,  wi'  zuch 
a  complaint  as  I  du  lie  here  wi'.  The  doctor  were 
vair  beat  at  vust ;  but  him  worried  it  out  wi'  hisself 
tu  the  last.  Him's  a  turble  gude  doctor,  var  arl 
he  wuden't  go  tu  the  war." 

Sarah  visited  him  every  day.  He  was  so  frail 
and  withered  a  little  object  that  it  seemed  as 
though  he  could  waste  no  further,  and  yet  he 
dwindled  daily.  But  he  suffered  no  pain,  and  his 
wits  were  bright  to  the  end. 

This  evening  the  faint  whistle  of  his  voice  was 
fainter  than  ever,  and  she  had  to  bend  very  low  to 
catch  his  gasping  words.  He  lay  propped  up  on 
the  pillows,  with  a  red  scarf  tied  round  the 


336  PETER'S  MOTHER 

withered  scrag  of  his  throat,  and  his  spotless  bed 
freshly  arrayed  by  his  mate's  mother,  who  lived 
with  them  and  "did  for"  both. 

"  They  du  zay  as  Master  Peter  be  carting  of  'ee, 
Miss  Zairy,"  he  whispered.  "  Be  it  tru? " 

"Yes,  Jack  dear,  it's  true.     Are  you  glad?" 

"  I  be  glad  if  yu  thinks  yu'll  git  'un,"  wheezed 
poor  Jack.  "  'Twude  be  a  turble  gude  job  var  'ee 
tu  git  a  yusband.  But  doan't  'ee  make  tu  shar  on 
'un,  Miss  Zairy.  'Un  du  zay  as  him  be  turble 
vond  on  yu,  and  as  yu  du  be  playing  vast  and  loose 
wi'  he.  That's  the  ways  a  young  maid  du  go  on, 
and  zo  the  young  man  du  slip  thru'  'un's  vingers." 

"Yes,  Jack,"  said  Sarah,  with  unwonted  meek- 
ness. 

She  looked  round  the  little  unceiled  room,  open 
on  one  side  to  the  wooden  staircase  which  led  to 
the  kitchen  below ;  at  the  earth-stained  corduroys 
hanging  on  a  peg;  at  the  brown  mug  which  held 
Happy  Jack's  last  meal,  and  all  he  cared  to  take — 
a  thin  gruel. 

"  'Twude  be  a  grand  marriage  vor  the  likes  o' 
yu,  Miss  Zairy,  vor  the  Crewys  du  be  the  yoldest 
vambly  in  all  Devonsheer,  as  I've  yeard  tell;  and 
yure  vlok  bain't  never  corned  year  at  arl  befar 
yure  grandvather's  time.  Eh,  what  a  tale  there 
were  tu  tell  when  old  Sir  Timothy  married  Mary 
Ann!  'Twas  a  vine  scandal  vor  the  volk,  zo 
'twere;  but  I  wuden't  niver  give  in  tu  leaving 
Youlestone.  But  doan't  'ee  play  the  vule  wi' 


PETER'S  MOTHER  337 

Master  Peter,  Miss  Zairy.  Take  'un  while  yu  can 
git  'un,  will  'ee?  And  be  glad  tu  git  'un.  Yu 
listen  tu  I,  vor  I  be  a  turble  witty  man,  and  I  be 
giving  of  yu  gude  advice,  Miss  Zairy." 

"  I  am  listening,  Jack,  and  you  know  I  always 
take  your  advice." 

"Ah!  if  'twerent'  for  the  anny-dominy,  I'd  be 
tu  yure  wedding,"  sighed  Happy  Jack,  "  zame  as  I 
were  tu  Mary  Ann's.  Zo  I  wude." 

She  took  his  knotted  hand,  discoloured  with 
the  labour  of  eighty  years,  and  bade  him  farewell. 

"Thee  be  a  lucky  maid,"  said  Happy  Jack, 
closing  his  eyes. 

The  tears  were  yet  glistening  on  Sarah's  long 
lashes,  when  she  met  the  doctor  on  his  way  to  the 
cottage  she  had  just  quitted. 

She  was  in  no  mood  for  talking,  and  would 
have  passed  him  with  a  hasty  greeting,  but  the 
melancholy  and  fatigue  of  his  bearing  struck  her 
quick  perceptions. 

She  stopped  short,  and  held  out  her  hand  im- 
pulsively. 

"Dr.  Blunderbuss,"  said  Sarah,  "did  you  very 
much  want  Peter  to  find  out  that — that  he  could 
live  without  his  mother?" 

"Has  anything  happened?"  said  the  doctor; 
his  thin  face  lighted  up  instantly  with  eager  inter- 
est and  anxiety. 

"  Only  that, ' '  said  Sarah,     "  You  trusted  me,  59 


338  PETER'S  MOTHER 

I'm  trusting  you.  Peter's  found  out  everything. 
And — and  he  isn't  going  to  let  her  sacrifice  her 
happiness  to  him,  after  all.  I'll  answer  for  that. 
So  perhaps,  now,  you  won't  say  you're  sorry  you 
told  me?" 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  jest  with  me,  my 
child!"  said  the  doctor,  putting  a  trembling  hand 
on  her  arm.  "  Is  anything — settled? " 

"Do  I  ever  jest  when  people  are  in  earnest? 
And  how  can  I  tell  you  if  it's  settled? "  said  Sarah, 
in  a  tone  between  laughing  and  weeping.  "I — 
I'm  going  there  to-night.  I  oughtn't  to  have  said 
anything  about  it,  only  I  knew  how  much  you 
wanted  her  to  be  happy.  And — she's  going  to  be 
—that's  all." 

The  doctor  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  Sarah 
looked  away  from  him,  though  she  was  conscious 
that  he  was  gazing  fixedly  at  her  face.  But  she 
did  not  know  that  he  saw  neither  her  blushing 
cheeks,  nor  the  groups  of  tall  fern  on  the  red  earth- 
bank  beyond  her,  nor  the  whitewashed  cob  walls 
of  Happy  Jack's  cottage.  His  dreaming  eyes  saw 
only  Lady  Mary  in  her  white  gown,  weeping  and 
agitated,  stumbling  over  the  threshold  of  a 
darkened  room  into  the  arms  of  John  Crewys. 

"You  said  you  wished  it,"  said  Sarah. 

She  stole  a  hasty  glance  at  him,  half  frightened 
by  his  silence  and  his  pallor,  remembering  suddenly 
how  little  the  fulfilment  of  his  wishes  could  have  to 
do  with  his  personal  happiness. 


PETER'S  MOTHER  339 

The  doctor  recovered  himself.  "  I  wish  it  with 
all  my  heart,"  he  said.  He  tried  to  smile.  "Some 
day,  if  you  will,  you  shall  tell  me  how  you  managed 
it.  But  perhaps — not  just  now." 

" Can't  you  guess?"  she  said,  opening  her  eyes 
in  a  wonder  stronger  than  discretion. 

How  was  it  possible,  she  thought,  that  such  a 
clever  man  should  be  so  dull? 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "You  were 
always  too  quick  for  me,  little  Sarah,"  he  said. 
"  I  am  only  glad,  however  it  happened,  that — she 
— is  to  be  happy  at  last."  He  had  no  thoughts  to 
spare  for  Sarah,  or  any  other.  As  she  lingered 
he  said  absently,  "  Is  that  all?" 

She  looked  at  him,  and  was  inspired  to  leave 
the  remorseful  and  sympathetic  words  that  rushed 
to  her  lips  unsaid. 

"That  is  all,"  said  Sarah,  gently,  "for  the 
present." 

Then  she  left  him  alone,  and  took  her  way 
down  to  the  ferry. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"THE  very  last  of  the  roses,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

She  looked  round  the  banqueting  hall.  The 
wax  candles  shed  a  radiance  upon  their  immediate 
surroundings,  which  accentuated  the  shadows  of 
each  unlighted  corner.  Bowls  of  roses,  red  and 
white  and  golden,  bloomed  delicately  in  every 
recess  against  the  black  oak  of  the  panels. 

The  flames  were  leaping  on  the  hearth  about  a 
fresh  log  thrown  into  the  red-hot  wood-ash.  The 
two  old  sisters  sat  almost  in  the  chimney  corner, 
side  by  side,  where  they  could  exchange  their  con- 
fidences unheard. 

Lady  Belstone  still  mourned  her  admiral  in 
black  silk  and  cr§pe,  whilst  Miss  Georgina's  respect 
for  her  brother's  memory  was  made  manifest  in 
plum-coloured  satin. 

Lady  Mary,  too,  wore  black  to-night.  Since 
the  day  of  Peter's  return  she  had  not  ventured  to 
don  her  favourite  white.  Her  gown  was  of  velvet ; 
her  fair  neck  and  arms  shone  through  the  yellow- 
ing folds  of  an  old  lace  scarf  which  veiled  the 
bosom.  A  string  of  pearls  was  twisted  in  her  soft, 
brown  hair,  lending  a  dim  crown  to  her  exquisite 

840 


PETER'S  MOTHER  341 

and  gracious  beauty  in  the  tender  light  of  the  wax 
candles. 

Candlelight  is  kind  to  the  victims  of  relentless 
time;  disdaining  to  notice  the  little  lines  and 
shadows  care  has  painted  on  tired  faces ;  restoring 
delicacy  to  faded  complexions,  and  brightness  to 
sad  eyes. 

The  faint  illumination  was  less  kind  to  Sarah, 
in  her  white  gown  and  blue  ribbons.  The  beauti- 
ful colour,  which  could  face  the  morning  sun- 
beams triumphantly  in  its  young  transparency, 
was  almost  too  high  in  the  warmth  of  the  shadowy 
hall,  where  her  golden-red  hair  made  a  glory  of  its 
own. 

The  October  evening  seemed  chilly  to  the  aged 
sisters,  and  even  Lady  Mary  felt  the  comfort  of  her 
velvet  gown ;  but  Sarah  was  impatient  of  the  heat 
of  the  log  fire,  and  longed  for  the  open  air.  She 
envied  Peter  and  John,  who  were  reported  to  be 
smoking  outside  on  the  terrace. 

"The  very  last  of  the  roses,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"There  will  be  a  sharp  frost  to-night;  they 
won't  stand  that,"  said  Sarah,  shaking  her  head. 

"The  poor  roses  of  autumn,"  said  Lady  Mary, 
rather  dreamily,  "they  are  never  so  sweet  as  the 
roses  of  June." 

"  But  they  are  much  rarer,  and  more  precious," 
said  Sarah. 

Lady  Mary  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  How 
quickly  Sarah  always  understood ! 


342  PETER'S  MOTHER 

Sarah  caught  her  hand  and  kissed  it  impul- 
sively. Her  back  was  turned  to  the  old  sisters  in 
the  chimney  corner. 

"Lady  Mary,"  she  said,  "oh,  never  mind  if  I 
am  indiscreet;  you  know  I  am  always  that."  A 
little  sob  escaped  her.  "  But  I  must  ask  you  this 
one  thing — you — you  didn't  really  think  that  of 
me,  did  you?" 

"Think  what,  dear  child?"  said  Lady  Mary, 
bewildered. 

Sarah  looked  round  at  the  two  old  ladies. 

The  head  of  Miss  Crewys  was  inclined  towards 
the  crochet  she  held  in  her  lap.  She  slumbered 
peacefully. 

Lady  Belstone  was  absently  gazing  into  the 
heart  of  the  great  fire.  The  heat  did  not  appear  to 
cause  her  inconvenience.  She  was  nodding. 

"They  will  hear  nothing,"  said  Lady  Mary, 
softly.  "Tell  me,  Sarah,  what  you  mean.  I 
would  ask  you,"  she  said,  with  a  little  smile  and 
flush,  "to  tell  me  something  else,  only,  I — too — 
am  afraid  of  being  indiscreet." 

"There  is  nothing  I  would  not  tell  you," 
murmured  Sarah,  "though  I  believe  I  would 
rather  tell  you — out  in  the  dark — than  here,"  she 
laughed  nervously. 

"The  drawing-room  is  not  lighted,  except  by 
the  moon,"  said  Lady  Mary,  also  a  little  excited 
by  the  thought  of  what  Sarah  might,  perhaps,  be 
going  to  say;  "but  there  is  no  fire  there,  I  am 


PETER'S  MOTHER  343 

afraid.  The  aunts  do  not  like  sitting  there  in  the 
evening.  But  if  you  would  not  be  too  cold,  in 
that  thin,  white  gown ?" 

"I  am  never  cold,"  said  Sarah;  "I  take  too 
much  exercise,  I  suppose,  to  feel  the  cold." 

"Then  come,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

They  stole  past  the  sleeping  sisters  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  closed  the  communicating 
door  as  noiselessly  as  possible. 

Here  only  the  moonlight  reigned,  pouring  in 
through  the  uncurtained  windows  and  rendering 
the  gay,  rose-coloured  room,  with  its  pretty  con- 
tents, perfectly  weird  and  unfamiliar. 

Sarah  flung  her  warm,  young  arms  about  her 
earliest  and  most  beloved  friend,  and  rested  her 
bright  head  against  the  gentle  bosom. 

"You  never  thought  I  meant  all  the  horrid, 
cruel  things  I  made  Peter  say  to  you?  You  never 
believed  it  of  me,  did  you?  That  I  wouldn't 
marry  him  unless  you  went  away.  You  whom  I 
love  best  in  the  world,  and  always  have,"  she  said 
defiantly,  "  or  that  I  would  ever  alter  a  single  cor- 
ner of  this  dear  old  house,  which  used  to  be  so 
hideous,  and  which  you  have  made  so  beautiful? " 

"Sarah!  My — my  darling!"  said  Lady  Mary, 
in  frightened,  trembling  tones. 

"  You  needn't  blame  Peter  for  saying  any  of  it," 
said  Sarah,  "  for  it  was  I  who  put  the  words  into 
his  mouth.  It  made  him  miserable  to  say  them; 
but  he  could  not  help  himself.  He  wasn't  really 


344  PETER'S  MOTHER 

quite  responsible  for  his  actions.  He  isn't  now. 
When  people  are — are  in  love,  I've  often  noticed 
they're  not  responsible." 

"Butwhy- 

"  I  only  wanted  to  show  him  what  a  goose  he 
really  was,"  murmured  Sarah,  hanging  her  head. 
"  He  came  back  so  pompous  and  superior ;  talking 
about  his  father's  place,  and  being  the  only  man 
in  the  house,  and  obliged  to  look  after  you  all ;  and 
it  was  all  so  ridiculous,  and  so  out  of  date.  I 
didn't  mean  to  hurt  you  except  just  for  a  moment, 
because  it  could  not  be  helped,"  said  Sarah.  She 
hid  her  face  in  Lady  Mary's  neck,  half  laughing 
and  half  crying.  "  I  was  so  afraid  you — you  were 
taking  him  seriously ;  and — and  he  was  so  selfish, 
wanting  to  keep  you  all  to  himself." 

"Oh,  Sarah,  hush!"  Lady  Mary  cried. 

She  divined  it  all  in  a  flash,  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye.  It  was  to  Sarah  that  she  owed  the  pain 
and  mortification,  not  to  her  boy. 

Sarah  had  said  Peter  was  not  responsible. 

Was  he  only  a  puppet  in  the  hands  of  the  girl  he 
loved?  Could  John  ever  have  been  thus  blindly 
led  and  influenced?  Her  wounded  heart  said 
quickly  that  John  was  of  a  different,  nobler, 
stronger  nature.  But  the  mother's  instinct  leapt 
to  defend  her  son,  and  cried  also  that  John  was  a 
man,  and  Peter  but  a  boy  in  love,  ready  to  sacri- 
fice the  whole  world  to  her  he  worshipped.  His 
father  would  never  have  done  that.  Lady  Mary 


PETER'S  MOTHER  345 

was  even  capable  of  an  unreasoning  pride  in 
Peter's  power  of  loving;  though  it  was  not  her — 
alas!  it  never  had  been  her — for  whom  her  boy 
was  willing  to  make  the  smallest  sacrifice. 

But  he  had  honestly  meant  to  devote  himself  to 
his  mother,  according  to  his  lights,  had  Sarah's  in- 
fluence not  come  in  the  way.  Sarah,  who  must 
have  divined  her  secret  all  the  while,  and  who,  with 
the  dauntlessness  of  youth,  had  not  hesitated  to 
force  open  the  door  into  a  world  so  bright  that 
Lady  Mary  almost  feared  to  enter  it,  but  trem- 
bled, as  it  were,  upon  the  threshold  of  her  own 
happiness — and  Peter's. 

They  were  silent,  holding  each  other  in  a  close 
embrace,  both  conscious  of  the  passing  and  repass- 
ing  footsteps  upon  the  gravel  path  without. 

Sarah  was  the  first  to  recover  herself.  She  put 
Lady  Mary  into  her  favourite  chair,  and  came  and 
knelt  by  her  side. 

"That's  over,  and  I'm  forgiven,"  she  said 
softly. 

"  You  will  make  my  boy — happy? "  whispered 
Lady  Mary. 

"  I  can't  tell  whether  he  will  be  happy  or  not,  if 
— if  he  marries  me,"  said  Sarah.  She  appeared  to 
smother  a  laugh.  "  But  Aunt  Elizabeth  seems  re- 
conciled to  the  idea.  I  think  you  bewitched  her 
this  afternoon.  She  is  in  love  with  you,  and  with 
this  house,  and  with  Mr.  John.  But  more  particu- 
larly with  you.  When  I  said  I  had  refused  Peter 


346  PETER'S  MOTHER 

over  and  over  again,  she  said  I  was  a  fool.  But  she 
says  that  whatever  I  do.  I — I  suppose  I  let  her 
think,"  said  Sarah,  leaning  her  head  against  Lady 
Mary's  knee,  "  that  some  day — if  he  is  still  idiotic 
enough  to  wish  it — and  if  you  don't  mind " 

"My  pretty  Sarah — my  darling!" 

"I'm  sure  it's  only  because  he's  your  son,"  said 
Sarah,  vehemently;  "I've  always  wanted  to  be 
your  child.  What's  the  use  of  pretending  I 
haven ' t  ?  Think  what  a  time  poor  mamma  used  to 
give  me,  and  what  an  angel  of  goodness  you  were 
to  the  poor  little  black  sheep  who  loved  you  so." 

Sarah's  white  dress,  shining  in  the  moonlight, 
caught  the  attention  of  John  Crewys,  through  the 
open  window.  He  paused  in  his  walk  outside. 
Peter's  voice  uttered  something,  and  the  two  dark 
figures  passed  slowly  on. 

"They  won't  interrupt  us,"  said  Sarah, 
serenely.  "  I  told  Peter  at  dinner  that  I  wanted 
to  talk  to  you,  and  that  he  was  to  go  and  smoke 
with  Mr.  John,  and  behave  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  He  said  he  hadn't  spoken  to  him 
since  this  morning.  He  is  all  agog  to  know  what 
Lady  Tintern  came  for.  But  he  won't  dare  to 
come  and  interrupt." 

"What  have  you  done  to  my  boy,"  said 
Lady  Mary,  half  laughing  and  half  indignant, 
"that  your  lightest  word  is  to  be  his  law?  And 
oh,  Sarah" — her  tone  grew  wistful — "  it  is  strange 
— even  though  he  loves  you,  that  you  should 


PETER'S  MOTHER  347 

understand  him  better  than  I,  who  would  lay 
down  my  life  for  him." 

"It's  very  easy  to  see  why,"  said  Sarah, 
calmly.  The  deep  contralto  music  of  her  voice 
contrasted  oddly  with  her  matter-of-fact  manner 
and  words.  "  It's  just  that  Peter  and  I  are  made 
of  common  clay,  and  that  you  are  not.  So,  of 
course,  we  understand  each  other.  I  don't  mean 
to  say  that  we  don't  quarrel  pretty  often.  I  dare 
say  we  always  shall.  I  am  good-tempered,  but  I 
like  my  own  way ;  and,  besides  " — she  spoke  quite 
cheerfully — "anybody  would  quarrel  with  Peter. 
But  you  and  he  are  a  little  like  Aunt  Elizabeth 
and  me.  She  wants  me  to  behave  like  a  grande 
dame,  and  to  know  exactly  who  everybody  is,  and 
treat  them  accordingly,  and  be  never  too  much 
interested  in  anything,  but  never  bored;  and 
always  look  beautiful,  and,  above  all,  appropriate. 
And  / — would  rather  be  taking  the  dogs  for  a  run 
on  the  moors,  in  a  short  skirt  and  big  boots ;  or  up 
at  four  in  the  morning  otter-hunting ;  or  out  with 
the  hounds;  or — or — digging  in  the  garden,  for 
that  matter ; — than  be  the  prettiest  girl  in  London, 
and  going  to  a  State  ball  or  the  opera.  You  see, 
I've  tried  both  kinds  of  life  now,  and  I  know  which 
I  like  best.  And — and  flirting  with  people  is 
pleasant  enough  in  its  way,  but  it  gives  you  a  kind 
of  sick  feeling  afterwards,  which  hunting  never 
does.  I  don't  think  I'm  really  much  of  a  hand  at 
sentiment,"  said  Sarah,  with  great  truth. 


348  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"And  Peter?"  asked  Lady  Mary,  gently. 

"You  wanted  Peter  to  be  a — a  noble  kind  of 
person,  a  great  statesman,  or  something  of  that 
sort,  didn't  you?"  Her  soft  lips  caressed  Lady 
Mary's  hand  apologetically.  "To  be  fond  of 
reading  and  poetry,  and  all  sorts  of  things ;  and  he 
wanted  to  shoot  rabbits  and  go  fishing.  But,  of 
course,  he  couldn't  help  knowing  you  wanted  him 
to  be  something  he  wasn't,  and  never  could  be, 
and  didn't  want  to  be." 

"  Oh,  Sarah! "  said  poor  Lady  Mary.  "  But— 
yes,  it  is  true  what  you  are  saying." 

"It's  true,  though  I  say  it  so  badly;  and  I 
know  it,  because,  as  I  tell  you,  Peter  and  I  are  just 
the  same  sort  at  heart.  I've  been  teasing  him, 
pretending  to  be  a  worldling,  but  foreign  travel 
and  entertaining  in  London  are  just  about  as 
unsuited  to  me  as  to  Peter.  I — I'm  glad" — she 
uttered  a  quick,  little  sob — "that  I — I  played  my 
part  well  while  it  all  lasted;  but  you  know  it 
wasn't  so  much  me  as  my  looks  that  did  it.  And 
because  I  didn't  care,  I  was  blunt  and  natural,  and 
they  thought  it  chic.  But  it  wasn't  chic;  it  was 
that  I  really  didn't  care.  And  I  don't  think  I've 
ever  quite  succeeded  in  taking  Peter  in  either; 
for  he  couldn't  believe  I  could  really  think  any 
sort  of  life  worth  living  but  the  dear  old  life  down 
here,  which  he  and  I  love  best  in  the  world,  in  our 
heart  of  hearts." 

The  twinkling,  frosty  blue  points  of  starlight 


PETER'S  MOTHER  349 

glittered  in  the  cloudless  vault  of  heaven,  above 
the  moonlit  stillness  of  the  valley.  The  clear-cut 
shadows  of  the  balcony  and  the  stone  urns  fell 
across  the  cold  paths  and  whitened  grass  of  the 
terrace. 

Ghostlike,  Sarah's  white  form  emerged  from 
the  darkness  of  the  room,  and  stood  on  the 
threshold  of  the  window. 

John  threw  away  the  end  of  his  cigar,  and 
smiled.  "I  presume  the  interview  we  were  not 
to  interrupt  is  over?"  he  said,  good-humouredly. 
"Surely  it  is  not  very  prudent  of  Miss  Sarah  to 
venture  out-of-doors  in  that  thin  gown ;  or  has  she 
a  cloak  of  some  kind " 

But  Peter  was  not  listening  to  him. 

Sarah,  wrapped  in  her  white  cloak  and  hood, 
had  already  flitted  across  the  moonlit  terrace,  into 
the  deep  shadow  of  the  ilex  grove;  and  the  boy 
was  by  her  side  before  John  could  reach  the  win- 
dow she  had  just  quitted. 

"  Oh,  is  it  you,  Peter? "  said  Miss  Sarah,  looking 
over  her  shoulder.  "I  was  looking  for  you.  I 
have  put  on  my  things.  It  is  getting  late,  and  I 
thought  you  would  see  me  home." 

"  Must  you  go  already? "  cried  Peter.  "  Have 
they  sent  to  fetch  you?" 

"  I  dare  say  I  could  stay  a  few  moments,"  said 
Sarah;  "but,  of  course,  my  maid  came  ages  ago, 
as  usual.  But  if  there  was  anything  you  particu- 
larly wanted  to  say — you  know  how  tiresome  she 


350  PETER'S  MOTHER 

is,  keeping  as  close  as  she  can,  to  listen  to  every 
word — why,  it  would  be  better  to  say  it  now.  I 
am  not  in  st}.ch  a  hurry  as  all  that." 

"  You  know  very  well  I  want  to  say  a  thousand 
things,"  said  Peter,  vehemently.  "I  have  been 
walking  up  and  down  till  I  thought  I  should  go 
mad,  making  conversation  with  John  Crewys." 
Peter  was  honestly  unaware  that  it  was  John  who 
had  made  the  conversation.  "  Has  Lady  Tintern 
come  to  take  you  away,  Sarah?  And  why  did  she 
call  on  my  mother  this  afternoon,  the  very  mo- 
ment she  arrived?" 

"Your  mother  would  be  the  proper  person  to 
tell  you  that.  How  should  I  know?"  said  Sarah, 
reprovingly.  " Have  you  asked  her?" 

"How  can  I  ask  her?"  said  Peter.  His  voice 
trembled.  "I've  not  spoken  to  her  once — ex- 
cept before  other  people  —  since  John  Crewys 
told  me — what  I  told  you  this  afternoon.  I've 
scarcely  seen  any  one  since  I  left  you.  I  wan- 
dered off  for  a  beastly  walk  in  the  woods  by  my- 
self, as  miserable  as  any  fellow  would  be,  after 
all  you  said  to  me.  Do  you  think  I — I've  got  no 
feelings?" 

His  voice  sounded  very  forlorn,  and  Sarah  felt 
remorseful.  After  all,  Peter  was  her  comrade  and 
her  oldest  friend,  as  well  as  her  lover.  At  the 
very  bottom  of  her  heart  there  lurked  a  remnant 
of  her  childish  admiration  for  him,  which  would, 
perhaps,  never  quite  be  extinguished.  The  boy 


PETER'S  MOTHER  351 

who  got  into  scrapes,  and  was  thrashed  by  his 
father,  and  who  did  not  mind;  the  boy  who 
vaulted  over  fences  she  had  to  climb  or  creep 
through ;  who  went  fishing,  and  threw  a  fly  with 
so  light  and  sure  a  hand,  and  filled  his  basket, 
whilst  she  wound  her  line  about  her  skirts,  and 
caught  her  hook,  and  whipped  the  stream  in  vain. 
He  had  climbed  a  tall  fir-tree  once,  and  brought 
down  in  safety  a  weeping,  shame-stricken  little 
girl  with  a  red  pigtail,  whose  daring  had  suddenly 
failed  her;  and  he  had  gone  up  the  tree  himself 
like  a  squirrel  afterwards,  and  fetched  her  the  nest 
she  coveted.  Nor  did  he  ever  taunt  her  with  her 
cowardice  nor  revert  to  his  own  exploit ;  but  this 
was  because  Peter  forgot  the  whole  adventure  in 
an  hour,  though  Sarah  remembered  it  to  the  end 
of  her  life.  He  climbed  so  many  trees,  and  went 
birds '-nesting  every  spring  to  his  mother's  de- 
spair. 

Sarah  thought  of  him  wandering  all  the  after- 
noon in  his  own  woods,  lonely  and  mortified,  lis- 
tening to  the  popping  of  the  guns  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  hill,  which  echoed  through  the  valley ; 
she  knew  what  those  sounds  meant  to  Peter — the 
boy  who  had  shot  so  straight  and  true,  and  who 
would  never  shoulder  a  gun  any  more. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  so  miserable," 
she  said,  as  lightly  as  she  could;  but  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes,  she  was  so  sorry  for  Peter. 

"I  dare  say  you  don't,"  said  Peter,  bitterly. 


352  PETER'S  MOTHER 

"  Nobody  has  ever  made  a  fool  of  you,  no  doubt. 
A  wretched,  self-confident  fool,  who  gave  you  his 
whole  heart  to  trample  in  the  dust.  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  have  known  you  were  only — playing 
with  me — as  you  said — a  wretched  object  as  I  am 
now,  but " 

"An  object!"  cried  Sarah,  so  anxious  to  stem 
the  tide  of  his  reproaches  that  she  scarce  knew 
what  she  was  saying,  "which  appeals  to  the 
soft  side  of  every  woman's  heart,  high  or  low, 
rich  or  poor,  civilized  or  savage — a  wounded 
soldier." 

"Do  you  think  I  want  to  be  pitied?"  said 
Peter,  glowering. 

"Pitied!"  said  Sarah,  softly.  "Do  you  call 
this  pity?"  She  leant  forward  and  kissed  his 
empty  sleeve. 

Peter  trembled  at  her  touch. 

"  It  is — because  you  are  sorry  for  me,"  he  said 
hoarsely. 

"  Sorry!"  said  Sarah,  scornfully ; "  I  glory  in  it." 
Then  she  suddenly  began  to  cry.  "  I  am  a  wicked 
girl,"  she  sobbed,  "  and  you  were  a  fool,  if  you  ever 
thought  I  could  be  happy  anywhere  but  in  this 
stupid  old  valley,  or  with — with  any  one  but  you. 
And  I  am  rightly  punished  if  my — my  behaviour 
has  made  you  change  your  mind.  Because  I  did 
mean,  just  at  first,  to  throw  you  over,  and  to — 
to  go  away  from  you,  Peter.  But — but  the  arm 
that  wasn't  there — held  me  fast." 


PETER'S  MOTHER  353 

"Sarah!" 

She  hid  her  face  against  his  shoulder. 

John  Crewys  was  playing  softly  on  the  little 
oak  piano  in  the  banqueting  hall,  and  Lady  Mary 
stood  before  the  open  hearth,  absently  watching 
the  sparks  fly  upward  from  the  burning  logs,  and 
listening. 

The  old  sisters  had  gone  to  bed. 

Sarah's  bright  face,  framed  in  her  white  hood, 
fresh  and  rosy  from  the  cold  breath  of  the  October 
night,  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"  Peter  is  in  there — waiting  for  you,"  she  whis- 
pered, blushing. 

John  Crewys  rose  from  the  piano,  and  came 
forward  and  held  out  his  hand  to  Sarah,  with  a 
smile. 

Lady  Mary  hurried  past  them  into  the  un- 
lighted  drawing-room.  Her  eyes,  dazzled  by  the 
sudden  change,  could  distinguish  nothing  for  a 
moment. 

But  Peter  was  there,  waiting,  and  perhaps 
Lady  Mary  was  thankful  for  the  darkness,  which 
hid  her  face  from  her  son. 

"Peter!" 

"Mother!" 

She  clung  to  her  boy,  and  a  kiss  passed  be- 
tween them  which  said  all  that  was  in  their  hearts 
that  night — of  appeal — of  understanding — of  for- 
giveness— of  the  love  of  mother  and  son. 


354  PETER'S  MOTHER 

And  no  foolish  words  of  explanation  were  ever 
uttered  to  mar  the  gracious  memory  of  that  sacred 
reconciliation. 


THE   END 


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